


Friends with(out) benefits

by Molly_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU ish, Canon divergence after Mary’s shooting, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Light BDSM, Mary survived being shot, Not Canon Compliant, Sherlock & Mary brotp, Sherlock's not as clever as he thinks he is, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherrinford never happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-04-28 15:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14452611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly_Holmes/pseuds/Molly_Holmes
Summary: Molly's engagement has ended, Sherlock is married to his work, neither of them are getting any action. The solution to their sexual frustration is so obvious even Anderson could figure it out: An arrangement, a contract between friends who both want a booty call but don't want to be tied down. Simple.What could possibly go wrong?





	1. The agreement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gabriella_t](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriella_t/gifts).



> Based on this [FWB contract](https://geekdrop.com/content/official-friends-with-benefits-agreement-send-it-to-your-booty-call-today-updated) and set in roughly the same timeline as season 4, though canon divergent after Mary's shooting.
> 
> I own nothing.

**This _pre_ -booty call agreement (herein after referred to as the "Agreement") is entered into on the 27th day of April, 2018 by Molly Hooper & Sherlock Holmes.**

**THIS AGREEMENT SHALL COVER THE FOLLOWING RULES & PRINCIPALS:**

 

 **_‘No_ ** **_sleeping over. Unless it's very good and we need to repeat it in the morning.’_ **

 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow that was intended to convey, _Oh, it’ll be very good. Bloody brilliant, in fact._

 

Molly internalised an eye-roll. Arrogant prick.  “We don’t know that yet.”

 

Sherlock scrunched his nose in an irritated dismissal, his peacock like preening deflating a bit. “But it’s me.”

 

“Implying that if it’s shit that’ll be down to me?” She folded her arms across her chest and gave him her best _fuck you_ look.

 

Her use of vulgarity was completely beneath him.

 

Breaking and entering? _Sure._ Drug use? _Why not._ The odd murder here and there? _No problem._ But gutter language? No, Sherlock was raised better than that. “It won’t be _shit_ , be as you so eloquently put it. Besides, I already sleep over, why would that change?”

 

“Because,” Molly scowled, “sleeping over is, I don’t know, _couple-y._ Isn’t that exactly what we’re trying to avoid?”

 

“Fine,” he conceded, “but I‘ll still sleep over on nights when we don’t have sex.”

 

“No.” On this point she was going to stand her ground. “Being ‘friends with benefits’ will mean we won’t do that kind of thing any more. No sharing a bed, no crap telly marathons, no having breakfast together or walking me to the tube the next morning. It’s neater, less personal that way.”

 

Sherlock grumbled, “Then the title of the contract is a misnomer if the benefit is singular.”

 

“Be that as it may, that’s the deal. You in or not?”

 

“In,” he grunted, “next condition.”

 

 **_‘No_ ** **_meeting in public unless it's for car-sex, or if absolutely necessary, for dinner or drinks before the events of the evening.’_ **

 

“Moot point I know,” Molly said, “as neither of us own a car, but I’m definitely not doing it in the back of a cab or in one of your brother’s funeral limousines. We can discuss meals on an ad-hoc basis.”

 

Sherlock scrolled through his phone doing his best not to shudder at the thought of getting down and dirty on the same back seat where Mycroft’s ever expanding arse so often sat, and held up his calendar without taking his eyes off the laptop she’d been typing up the contract on. “Then we’ll have to have sex every Tuesday and Friday.”

 

 _“Oh for-_ Why?”

 

“There’s no way I’m giving up games night on Tuesdays – I’m two rounds ahead of you in the Snakes and Ladders tournament and I refuse to lose by default. It wouldn’t be sporting.”

 

Molly took a cleansing breath, “Okay, Tuesday and other nights to be agreed by both parties.”

 

“And Fridays,” he insisted. “We always go out for curry on Fridays, it’s our regular da-” he barely caught the slip, “um, appointment. We’ve been doing it for years.”

 

“Not anymore. Curry on Fridays after work is what couples do. We’re not a couple.”

 

Sherlock’s jaw tensed and twitched. He looked straight ahead and bit his lip.

 

“Moving on,” Molly scrolled down her laptop to the next clause.

 

 **_‘No_ ** **_calls / texts / email before 9:00 PM. We don't have shit to talk about (unless you're sending nudies).’_ **

 

“No.”

 

Molly looked at him, completely exasperated. “Sherlock, seriously-”

 

“No. I need 24 hour access to you.” Before Molly could remind him yet again that they weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend he added, “For cases. People’s lives are at stake, _Doctor_ Hooper.”

 

Molly folded like a wet cardboard box. “Right. Case related only.”

 

When Sherlock gave her a smugly triumphant half-smile she told him, “That means someone had better be actually dying or dead before you call me. If it’s just because Mycroft is bothering you, or John’s being an arse, or you can’t remember Lestrade’s first name, I will hang up on your bony backside.”

 

“My backside is not bony,” he sulked a bit and looked over his shoulder, pushing his posterior out to emphasise its curve.

 

She gave a wry little grin. “Regardless, no calls, capiche?”

 

His lips twitched. “Yes, Don Corleone.”

 

Molly smiled despite herself, and Sherlock returned it with the oddest little blush, telling her. “But we should definitely do the nudie thing.”

 

“I won’t stop you, if you want to send them go ahead.”

 

Sherlock felt exactly like he’d been tricked.

 

 **_‘No_ ** **_plans made in advance, that is why you are called the "backup.” ’_ **

****

“I think we can both agree on that one.”

 

“Except for existing plans. Ones made pre-agreement.” Trying to sound business-like and indifferent, Sherlock watched her reaction from the corner of his eye. When Molly frowned he reminded her, “My parents’ anniversary party, Lestrade’s wedding, both are next month, and you’ve already agreed to come with me to Sussex when I meet the estate agent on Monday.”

 

Molly sighed, scowling at him. “Okay, I’ll honour pre-existing commitments, but no new ones. Okay?”

 

 _Hmm- There was also John’s birthday party in July, the boring case in Cardiff- **Ah-ha!** _ He bit down on a self-satisfied smile. “Isn’t your friend Meena getting married next year?”

 

 _Shit_. “Case by case basis then?”

 

Sherlock took his small victory.

**‘No** **"baby" or "honey" talk. However, dirty talk is encouraged.’**

 

Sherlock looked down at her, inscrutable and flat-toned. “Agreed.”

 

“Enthusiastically so.”

 

“Next.”

 

 **‘No** **asking for comparisons with former lovers. For those 10 minutes that you're in, you are all that matters at that moment.’**

 

While he quite liked the idea that he would be all that mattered at that moment, he had been looking forward to favourable post-coital comparisons with Moriarty and Meat-dagger. He was Shagalot Holmes after all. And a genius.

 

“But shouldn’t we discuss performance? To enhance the experience?” He prided himself that his consideration knew no bounds.

 

“You really want me asking about Janine?” She teased

 

 _Oh_. Well when she put it like that-

 

“Or don’t mind hearing about Jim’s ginormous co-”

 

No. _NO!_ “Okay. Point taken. No talking about the exes.”

 

“Moving on.” She smiled.

 

 **‘No** **calling each other "friends with benefits" or "friends with privileges", we are not friends, just sex buddies.’**

 

But Molly was his friend, just about his best friend since John left Baker Street for suburbia and domestic bliss. The fact that he had… _sexy_ feelings for her really shouldn’t affect that, _should it?_

 

“But we are already friends, that won’t change.”

 

“Well,” Molly considered, “we’ll be bound by the terms of the contract, so a lot of the stuff we do together will be out.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Baby sitting for John and Mary, working together in the lab, taking care of each other when we’re sick, grocery shopping together, going for chips after a case, you know, friend stuff.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, really.”

 

“You’d give up all of that for sex?”

 

“Sherlock, you’re the one who wanted to get a leg over without any of the complications of a relationship. I’m just trying to make it easier for us both by laying down the ground rules. If you’ve changed your mind-”

 

“No. Eh, no. Right. Agreed.”

 

Molly eyed his paling face suspiciously while she read the next clause.

 

 **‘No** **extra clothing. I don't want your ass leaving anything behind when you leave.’**

 

“But my jammies, eh, I mean pyjamas?”

 

Molly shot him a filthy glare, and scrolled back to the first section of the contract. “You won’t need them. ‘No sleeping over,’ remember?” To emphasise her point she tapped the screen, showing him the next point.

 

He gave her the oddest look when she read it out loud. He looked- _Wounded?_

 

 **‘No** **falling asleep or hanging out right after sex. It's over, so get your ass up, get dressed and get the fuck out.’**

 

 _Oh._ But cuddling with Molly was 99% of the reason he slept in her bed. Granted, there would now be new, smutty reasons. Still-

 

“Sherlock,” Molly clicked her fingers in front of his glazed over eyes, “you alright? You’ve gone a bit pale again.”

 

“Eh, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Agreed.”

 

Molly looked at him strangely when his voice came out sounding not unlike a castrato.

 

“Right…” she mumbled and carried on, side eyeing him for good measure.

**‘No** **kissing on the lips. If you'll toss my salad on the first date Lord knows what else you do with that mouth.’**

 

No- no- _kissing_?! That was the best part of sex – he’d lost hours of his life imagining what it would be like to finally kiss Molly Hooper…the slow seduction, the gentle press, the tentative exploration… Was she having some kind of mental breakdown denying them both?? He decided to find out.

 

“Molly, are you having some kind of mental breakdown?”

 

“Kissing is too personal, Sherlock. It wouldn’t be fair. I’m not budging on this.”

 

He pursed his lips into a tight line, not entirely pleased with the way this was beginning to go.

 

 **‘No** **condoms, no bitching. Take your ass home.’**

_Well maybe not at first, but surely after some time (and testing) she’d want to-_

 

But Molly didn’t wait to be argued with and moved onto the next clause without waiting to hear what Sherlock had to say on the matter.

 

 **‘No** **use of my phone, please. I don't want anyone calling back looking for your ass.’**

 

“Absolutely,” he agreed, somewhat distracted, his brain still stalled on not being able to sleep over, kicked out without the chance of a kiss good-night.

 

“That’ll be a first, won’t it?” Molly grinned in that cheeky monkey way she had and read the next line of the contract.

 

 **‘No** **emotional discussions. (i.e. Where are we heading with this? What are we doing?) I have a "Tramp Stamp" for a reason.’**

 

Wait. _What_? “You have a-?”

 

Molly shrugged her shoulders. “Sporty was my hero.”

 

Before he could ask what on earth that meant she was already onto the next clause.

 

 **‘Don't** **ask me why I got a Spice Girls tattoo on one side of my junk and an N’sync one on the other. Everyone knows that the 90’s was the best decade for music.’**

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, though better of it and snapped it shut again.

 

 **‘Don't** **waste your time bullshitting with fake affection or declaration of feelings, we've already agreed to be each other’s Booty Call, don't push it.’**

 

“That goes for work too. Getting into my knickers won’t get you access to anywhere else. One sniff of your bull shit and the contract gets ripped up.”

 

Sherlock’s whole body slackened. Charm had thus far been the only weapon in his armoury that he could count on. If she stripped him of that, he was in serious trouble.

 

 **‘Don't** **get jealous when you see me flirting with someone else on Facebook, or at least don't say shit to me about it.’**

 

He simply looked at her, dumbfounded.

 

“ _‘Not your girlfriend,’_ remember? I’m a free agent, I can do what I like.”

 

 **‘Don't** **ask me if I know who my daddy is. I already know and it ain't you.’**

“Why on Earth-”

“John told me about your mind palace trip to the 19th century. You may think I’m the kind of girl who’ll call you Daddy, but that particular deduction couldn’t be further from the truth – that shit stays in your head. Got it?”

Sherlock winced. “Got it.”

**‘Don't** **be surprised or nag me if I don't comment or "Like" any of your blog posts, I'm purposely keeping a low profile.’**

 

Hang the fuck on. He’d just written a very impressive piece on the varying tensile strength of natural fibres, she was sure to find it fascinating. “But-”

 

“Uh-uh.” Molly shook her head. “I couldn’t give a flying fuck about fag ash, and the fewer people who know we’re shagging, the better. The last thing I need is another Moriarty on my door step. No thanks.”

 

 **‘Don't** **ask me whose pussy this is, it's a self-explanatory question. It's already attached to its rightful owner.’**

 

“I though you wanted dirty talk?”

 

“Same as the ‘daddy’ nonsense. You’d better come up with something more imaginative than that.”

 

“Or else …?

 

Molly just shrugged her shoulders to convey _Or else you’ll be out of here._

 

 **‘You cannot** **borrow my laptop for any reason.’**

Fuck. What had she caught him doing that prompted that??

 

Catching his worried expression, Molly said, “John’s told me you look at pictures of naked women on his. The only naked woman you should be looking at in this flat is me. Got it?”

 

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed, “Got it.”

 

 **‘You cannot** **borrow any of my clothes and/or jewellery for any reason.’**

“Don’t even deny it, Sherlock Holmes. I’ve seen the pictures of you in a frock wearing white stilettoes.”

 

 _John,_ Sherlock angrily decided, _should make his peace with God, because he was going to kill him the minute he laid eyes on the short-arsed bastard._ “It was for a case.”

 

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, bub.”

 

**‘Calling out the wrong name during sex is OK, don't be offended. I won't.’**

 

_What?????? Who else would she be thinking about during sex?????_

 

“You’re not the only man I’ve ever fantasised about, Sherlock Holmes,” Molly grinned as he pouted.

**‘If either party attempts to change or alter any terms of the agreement post signing, it will automatically become null and void; you will be removed from the participants' BOOTY CALL LIST-’**

 

Sherlock stared at her, dumbfounded. “There’s a list?”

 

Molly, not giving him so much as a glance, deadpanned, “A rather long one.”

**‘-and deleted from all contacts, phone memory, e-mail, and drunk sexting / webcamming lists. In other words, you will be BLOCKED from _all_  communications & sexual positions until your silly arse understands the  _rules.’_**

 

And there it was. Molly Hooper had laid out the rules, and none of this seemed to be such a simple proposition anymore.

 

It was just sex. Correction, it was _supposed_ to be just sex. So why in hell’s name had the challenge of every one of his expectations about what they both wanted seemed like he was losing something instead of gaining it?

 

They were both sexually frustrated. Both a bit lonely. And he’d never met a woman he could tolerate as well as Molly Hooper. They were friends. Good ones. Surely adding _benefits_ to their situation could only enhance it?

 

Something about this whole thing was gnawing in the pit of his stomach. But for the life of him he couldn’t say what exactly.

 

She was looking at him expectantly when he realised he’d been chewing his thumbnail for the best part of five minutes.

 

“In or out, Sherlock?” Molly held out a sheet of paper to him, fresh off the printer. The contract already bore her looping signature, and beside it was a line for his.

 

Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not the Master of his own emotions. No one was ever going to get the better of him in that department. Least of all Molly Hooper.

 

He took the paper from her hand and signed with a flourish, pushing his doubts aside, “In.”


	2. The art of war

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea. It could all go horribly wrong,” Mary gingerly pushed herself up to sit at the kitchen counter, still tender from the healing gunshot wound.  

 

Molly placed a cup of tea in front of her friend and braced herself, knuckles white, knowing her stance was just a touch too obviously defensive. “Or it could all be fine, and you’re getting your knickers in a twist over nothing.”

 

“But Molly love, this is Sherlock we’re talking about.”

 

“And because I had feelings for him before I met Tom, or because I’ve fancied him since forever, I won’t be able to keep it strictly business?”

 

Mary grinned, “I was going to say because he’s a twat who’s screwed over every woman that’s had any kind of relationship with him. But yours are all pretty good reasons too.”

 

“Look,” Molly blew out a huffy breath, calming herself a bit. “It was going to happen eventually anyway. He sleeps over every other night, there’s more of his hair care products on my bathroom shelf than there are mine. He keeps pj’s in my dresser, shirts in my wardrobe. He’s kept a toothbrush here since twenty bloody eleven. Do you know we have ‘nights’? Like, curry night and Thai night. And don’t even get me started on Snakes and Ladders night. He’s recording Game of Thrones on my Sky box, for fuck’s sake—”

 

Mary laughed, full bellied. Shoulders shaking, she pressed a hand over her still pink scar.

 

“—and he keeps his spare phone charger on my bedside locker. Nothing says ‘I’d quite like to shag you’ like leaving a phone charger at a girl’s place.”

 

By Molly’s estimation, Sherlock had devised at least fifty different ways of making sure that she was never able to bring a bloke home after a date. They were all his not so subtle reminders that she had without consent or conscious volition entered into some sort of bizarre platonic domestic partnership with a mad man who – while he had no romantic interest in her himself – seemed determined to keep his territory free of other men.

_If he’d been a dog,_ she thought, _he would have sprayed every door way in her house._

 

“Mary, do you know what would happen if he finally decided one night that being the big spoon when we cuddled in bed isn’t enough anymore, and he wanted to do something about the erection he’s been poking me in the back with for the last six months? Neither of us would know what it meant or why we’re doing it, so we’d have five minutes of awkward fumbling followed by lousy sex and an even more awkward apology. Probably he’d feel obliged to try, so we’d wind up kissing, which would be even lousier than the bonking. We’d both pretend to fall asleep, and he’d be gone before I got up the next morning. That’d be followed by a month of radio silence from his nibs only ending when he sent me a text that reads ‘Do you have any spare kidneys?’ We’d never be able to look each other in the eye again without remembering just how shit it was and wishing it had never happened. Eventually we wouldn’t even want to be in the same room together.”

 

“Molly, sweetie—” Mary set her mug down and sighed.

 

“Don’t Mary, please. You know that’s exactly how it would go. He and I work together. We share friends, a goddaughter. I can’t let this get cocked up because I didn’t do something about it when I had the chance. At least this way there are rules and boundaries, and we both know what to expect from each other. This contract—  It’s crisis containment.”

 

“Hardly romantic though, is it?”

 

“Was it ever going to be? You said so yourself, this is Sherlock we’re talking about.”

 

Mary frowned, the ever present bright sparkle in her green eyes fading away. “Still though, have you asked yourself if this is what you really _want_?”

 

“What I want—” Molly paused, keeping her irritation in check. It wasn’t Mary’s fault that she was wound up – it was no one’s fault really – she’d expected this kind of reaction from their friends. But while everyone seemed to have an opinion about her and Sherlock, none of them really _knew_. They couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to have the thing you wanted most in this world scant inches from you as you lay side by side at night, yet be completely out of reach. Enough was enough. Something had to be done. “What I want is some control over what happens in my own life. What I want is to know where I stand with him. This arrangement gives me that.”

 

For the longest time Mary said nothing, but regarded Molly with a deep, thoughtful look that lay somewhere between sadness and frustration. Eventually, she seemed to come to a decision. “Right. If this is how you want to do things you’ve got my full support. Hundred percent.”

 

The women reached over the counter and took each other’s hands. Mary opened her mouth then closed it again. Her grip on Molly’s hands tightened.

 

“Thank you,” Molly gave Mary the softest smile.

 

“I just want you to promise me one thing. Can you please be careful? Please?”

 

“You think he’s going to poison me? Or cut me up into tiny pieces and use my bits for experiments?” she grinned.

 

“No, my darling. But he’s careless enough to break your heart.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Molly squeezed her hand. “That’s one body part I’ll be keeping well away from him.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock Holmes was not some love-struck fool in a rom-com. And he was not the teenage hero of a vampire meets werewolf cross-species romance novel. Nor was he a Byronic, misunderstood but very eligible gentleman in a BBC One period drama.

 

Therefore he was not brooding.

 

In real life grown men did not brood.

 

Sulking a little, he could allow. Vexed, maybe. Perhaps he was even feeling a bit mulish. But he was most definitely. Not. Brooding.

 

In a fit of not-brooding Sherlock pulled his second-best dressing gown on over his pyjamas and flung himself onto the settee, artfully draping himself over it an exact imitation of a Salvador Dali painting.

 

He sighed dramatically, wishing someone had been around to hear.

 

Sweet, unassuming Doctor Hooper with her guileless eyes and kind, gentle voice had pulled a bait and switch (his mind-palace Big Brother unhelpfully reminded him that, _technically_ , Sherlock was the one who’d made the suggestion that he and Molly should add sleeping together to their already mutually beneficial arrangement of bed sharing, to which his mind-palace self responded that Mycroft should mind his own business and suggested that he immediately piss the fuck off).

 

Until yesterday and that damnable contract that she’d insisted upon, his and Molly’s relationship had always relied on an equitable division of power: He had all of it and she had none.

 

Wait.

 

No.

 

Correction: If he were honest with himself – _truly honest_ – for the longest time that seat had been slowly drifting away from him and toward her.

 

It had all been so much simpler in the time before he died. Molly had adored him. And for his part Sherlock could acknowledge that he’d found her company tolerable. She was useful in the lab, and she knew how he liked his coffee. Both excellent qualities in a girlfri— _ahem_ – friend. Molly could run samples for him and wheel out bodies whenever he asked. She wasn’t dull like everyone else. Bright as a button, she understood things, she _knew_ things. He admired her intelligence. She didn’t fill every silence with chatter, and once she’d gotten over that stammering every time she spoke to him thing, she was actually interesting to talk to. Little by little she’d burrowed under his skin until he’d found that (horror of horrors) he’d begun to _like_ her. Not _like_ like. Obviously, because Sherlock Holmes didn’t _like_ like anyone. But like as in liking her company and liking the way she was always near. He liked the smell of her perfume and the sound of her voice. He liked the way she hummed while she worked, and the way her eyes lit up when she made terrible jokes. He liked her cherry print cardigan and her lab coat. He even liked it when she wore her glasses, and pinned her hair up in a messy bun. He _more_ than liked the way she fitted against him as they lay sleeping in her bed at night. _So, basically all of the usual things that one liked about their friends._

 

And without a moment’s hesitation, without a single word of question, without so much as the barest hint of doubt she’d shown the very truest of loyalties and thrown a body out of a third floor window at Bart’s for him. She’d saved his life (and John’s and Greg’s and Mrs Hudson’s) and been the keeper of his secrets for two years. There had been a shift in the way he saw her, suddenly she was something _more_.

 

The fiancé though, he had been the real beginning of Sherlock’s present predicament.

 

Two things had happened simultaneously: First, Molly had fallen out of love with Sherlock while he’d been away. That in itself wasn’t too large a problem as long as she continued to be at his beck and call. Still, it made him uncomfortable to know that he couldn’t just snap his fingers and she would do his bidding with quite the same enthusiasm that she once had. She’d begun to stick up for herself – in fact, she’d started to take the piss out of his requests for assistance ( _Oh for heaven’s sake, Sherlock, call them what they actually were –_ _Demands_ , mind-palace Mycroft unhelpfully interrupted) as though he were any one of her _ordinary_ friends. And second, he realised for the first time that the small trusted circle he’d built around himself lacked permanency. Arriving back in London he was confronted with the reality that not only could people quit his orbit if they chose, but they could introduce unauthorised elements as well.

 

That wasn’t an issue when it came to John. Sherlock liked Mary and Mary liked Sherlock. In fact, there were times when he liked Mary a good deal more than he liked John. She was quick witted, a former assassin with a terrifying skill set who ran toward danger even faster than Sherlock did.

 

She was an excellent choice of wife. So no problem there.

 

Molly, on the other hand, had saddled herself with an idiot, one whose brain had been set to clueless from the age of about twelve and had ceased to progress from there. Entirely undeserving of a woman as exceptional as Molly Hooper, there wasn’t one single thing about Tom that was remarkable. He was not clever. He was not funny. And given his brain power or lack thereof, he was never going to be useful. Not only was he not a good fit in Sherlock’s world, but the fool had the ability to take away someone who was.

 

When Molly had fiddled with that cheap, cubic-zirconia ring and told Sherlock that Tom was _nice_ , for the first time he realised that he was in danger of losing something he thought would be forever his. Okay, _yes_ , Tom had been easy to get rid of. All it took was half a dozen shirts in Molly’s wardrobe, a toothbrush carelessly left behind, a few nights spent in her bed and a bit of aftershave spilt on her pillow. Constant reminders to the waxy, Madame Tussauds’ version of Sherlock that there was already a real man in her life. One who’d been there longer and was impossible to replace. In the end, getting rid of the interloper had been almost too simple to be sporting. Still, the whole episode had left a rather nasty taste in Sherlock’s mouth, and in time he came to realise why. Eventually she was going to meet someone who wasn’t so easy to dismiss. Eventually he’d be the one noticing someone else’s aftershave on her pillow, someone else’s shirts hanging in the wardrobe. Objectionable as it was, the probabilities were very much in favour of it happening.

 

Unless—

 

Unless he could supply what was missing from their cosy little domestic situation: Sex.

 

Not entirely motivated by altruism, he would admit that since the whole Janine thing he was essentially persona non grata with the women of London. Sherlock therefore was, _well_ , horny as fuck.

 

Dovetailing perfectly, their needs were thus: Sex and companionship. They could provide for each other, eliminating the need for outsiders who would upset the carefully constructed and balanced eco system of their co-dependence.

 

Except Molly had gone off script, and it was beginning to look as though gaining one thing would mean losing something infinitely more valuable. She had asserted herself, and would keep on asserting herself until eventually he was completely discarded, pushed to one side and ignored while someone else took his place by her side and in her bed.

 

Unacceptable. Something had to be done.

 

He was still lying on the settee, by this time curled up like a cat waiting to be petted when the solution came to him.

 

If it was a power play Molly Hooper was making, he had one or two tricks up his own sleeve. He’d made a deduction, once, storing it away for emergency use only. It seemed to him that the time had finally come to wheel it out and see how on target he’d been.

 

From his dressing gown pocket, Sherlock took out his phone and pulled up Molly’s number.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly’s head was still buzzing from her conversation with Mary as she cleared away the tea things.

 

She loved Mary. She did.

 

But Mary had taken a bullet for Sherlock, and he’d taken one _from_ her, they were thick as thieves and closer to each other than she’d ever been to either of them. So while Molly had been truthful in what she’d told her friend (no use lying anyway, Mary would have spotted it a mile off) there had been an omission of specifics that she supposed coloured the whole conversation in a different light.

 

The contract _was_ crisis containment. That was a fact.

 

But that wasn’t its only purpose.

 

It wasn’t that Molly was game playing with Sherlock. Nonsense of that sort wasn’t in her nature. Truth be told, she’d rather be alone than have any man by dishonest means. But. By her estimation the agreement would do one of two things. Either letting him in, while still keeping him at arm’s length, would finally clarify what they were to each other, or, the boundaries set would give her the freedom to let him go and finally find someone that she could have a real chance of happiness with. By hook or by crook, it would bring things to a head.

 

She might lose him. But then again she might find something else.

 

It was as that thought sank in that her phone began to shake silently on the kitchen counter. She blinked at it, because it seemed to her that he was like a mind reading demonic apparition that could be summoned just by thinking about him.

 

Sherlock. 

 

 

 

> **_Need to speak to you. Come to Baker St. at your earliest convenience._ **
> 
> **_SH_ **

The ink on their agreement wasn’t even dry, and he was already disregarding the rules. Molly toyed with the idea of just ignoring him, deciding in the end that this was what her old Uni lecturer had called a teachable moment. 

 

 

 

> _Unless someone is dying, or you plan to follow this up with a nude selfie, you’re not supposed to text._
> 
> _M_
> 
> ****
> 
> **_Urgent. Regarding agreement. We’ve neglected to negotiate a vital area._ **
> 
> **_SH_ **

 

Oh for— This was probably something about tea, or dressing gowns, or something equally ridiculous.

 

 

 

> _You’re going to have to be more specific._

 

 

When her phone buzzed again, it was a message with just one word. 

 

 

 

> **_Kink._ **

 

It took Molly a full twenty seconds to realise she wasn’t breathing, her vision had gone white and her hands were shaking _._ Kink. Jesus H. What did that mean when it came to a man like Sherlock?

****

 

 

> **_Adjective. Involving or given to unusual sexual behaviour._ **
> 
>  

 

Within seconds her phone buzzed again.

 

 

 

> **_There are specifics that I’d like to discuss._ **

 

Definitely. He was definitely a mind reader.

 

Molly stared at his text for what felt like an eternity. By the time she felt the shock of his words lift, her hands had grown steady and her mind had cleared, yet her body was showing signs of reacting to the suggestion of what would happen if she went to him as he’d asked. Because _talking_ about sex, in her experience, usually led to _having_ sex. It had only been a week since they first discussed this new arrangement, a day since they agreed to the terms, it all felt a bit soon to actually have actual sex. _Well, if you could call nine years of waiting too soon._

 

She read it again.

 

If she went there now, chances were that something would happen between them and things would be forever changed.

 

But that was what she’d wanted all along, to bring things to a head on way or another. _Wasn’t it?_

 

Ignoring the horrible feeling of dread that was somehow diluted by a burgeoning arousal, Molly took a steadying breath, _Thank you Webster. Be there in an hour,_ she typed and hit send, hoping, _praying_ , that she wasn’t about to make the biggest mistake of her life.


	3. The things we hide

For the first year that Sherlock Holmes knew Molly Hooper she had not so much as given him the time of day.

 

She’d been polite, extended him professional courtesy, of course, but he could have swanned into Bart’s naked as the day he was born save for the chicken he was wearing on his head while singing God Save the Queen for all Molly could have cared. Her lack of notice toward him was in fact the reason _he’d_ first noticed _her_. Usually when he met a woman (and more often than was statistically likely men too) they flirted with him, displaying immediate signs of attraction. Eyelashes were batted, pupils dilated as they looked at his lips and eyes, cheeks would flush when he turned a glance of calculated seduction in their direction as he invariably did – one never knew when attraction could be used to your advantage.

 

Her behaviour had been intriguing. Sherlock knew his place in this world, he was the Marmite of men – you either loved him or hated him, there was no in between – yet Molly seemed to feel nothing but indifference.

 

Until the riding crop.

 

Ordinarily, viciously beating a corpse was not in Sherlock’s top ten opening salvos when it came to ingratiating himself to a member of the opposite sex. But it transpired that Molly was no ordinary woman.

 

She’d been her usual courteous, friendly but professionally distant self that afternoon, and he’d smirked as he’d said that he’d intended to crop the corpse, because he was sure that she would be repulsed and let her impenetrably polite façade slip an inch or two. What he hadn’t expected was the gleam in her eye, the shortness of her breath as she watched him through the observation window. She’d put on lipstick and made a ham-fisted attempt at inviting him out for coffee. Right there and then he knew he’d discovered something that she would have rather kept hidden: Doctor Hooper had a kinky side.

 

Now, as she stood before him, pinned by his hips up against the makeshift desk in his living room, her hands behind her back, flat on the table top in order to stop herself from falling right over, he saw the exact same signs she’d shown for the first time that day, ones that spoke to him of desire, arousal. Submission.

 

Sherlock slipped his fingers from her dishevelled hair, and opened the top few buttons of her dress. He tugged at the fabric, one handed, exposing enough skin that he could mouth at her neck. It wasn’t kissing. Definitely not kissing. Which was such a shame, he knew he was good at that, bed partners had often remarked on his wicked mouth. Still. Given the limitations, he was doing a damn fine job of circumventing the rules. _No kissing on the lips_ , meant there could be kissing elsewhere, and he was going to take full advantage of that loop hole.

 

Molly was becoming… _stimulated,_ but nowhere near as out of control as he needed her to be.

 

Inconveniently, his own body was staging something of a revolt and displaying its own signs of interest. Beneath his breastbone, his heart was galloping like Mycroft toward a cake shop and his mouth had become as dry as a bone. It was becoming harder and harder (in the quiet corner of his mind palace that he had been relegated to, John sniggered at Sherlock’s unfortunate choice of words) to remind himself that round one of what Molly had referred to as their _booty call_ arrangement was about power and who had it rather than his barely repressed desire to find out whether Molly’s gorgeous little tits were just as perky in real life as they had been in his many, _many_ fantasies about them.

 

Despite the things that he suspected she wanted him to do to her, there was something very quiet about Molly’s passion. Where he was all bluster and overt masculinity, she was steady and decidedly feminine. He would need to woo her, make her feel sexy and beautiful as well as tawdry and used. And as he watched her pretty lips part, begging for a kiss he couldn’t give, he found that it wouldn’t be difficult to do. He had always considered her attractive, in a conventional sort of way, but in that moment she seemed quite beautiful. There was an almost cartoonish upturn of her cute button nose that made her seem impossibly young. The way her hair fell over her shoulders was unbearably arousing. And the way her face, so perfectly proportioned, fitted in the palm of his hand was absolutely mesmerising.

 

Sherlock looked directly into her eyes and held his gaze steady.

 

“Molly,” he breathed in a voice like dark chocolate but twice as sinful, throwing every ounce of deliberate seduction he could muster behind it, his fingers ghosting down the side of her neck.

 

She closed her eyes and turned her head to one side, stretching like a cat in the sun, her body arching against his.

 

Sherlock let his hand drift lower, lower, skimming the tops of her breasts with just his fingertips. She sighed, lashes fluttering, and he smiled to himself. _Gotcha_.

 

Then Molly hummed a soft yes, her voice gone breathy, and the skin stretched over her elegant clavicles began to pink.

 

“Tell me what it is you like.”

 

She practically purred, “Can’t you just deduce me?”

 

“Already have.” He leaned over her, his lips hot against her ear, “But I want to hear you say it.”

 

She parted her lips again and blew out an excited breath.

 

“It’s what you like, isn’t it? To be made to ask for it?”

_“Oh crumbs.”_ Molly’s body twitched involuntarily toward his.

 

Sherlock placed his hand on her hip, pushing with just the lightest of force. _Down girl_.

 

A noise, high and a bit frustrated escaped her.

 

“Say it.”

 

“Yes,” her voice had become soft, unsure. “I like…I like to…to be taken in hand. Sort of… _bossed around_.”

 

It was becoming harder to keep his own composure. What had started off as an exercise to pitch Molly off kilter was beginning to have the oddest effect on _him_. The way she sounded, so sexy, the way she blushed prettily at his words, and how the heat of her body was doing unspeakably good things to the now hard ridge of flesh he was pressing against her pubic bone. A sensation not unlike a vibration, hummed between his legs. In his head there was a full orchestra of warning bells sounding, and he chose to ignore every last one of them.

 

He nipped her earlobe, making his next question sound more like a command. “Good girl. What else?”

 

Molly swayed a little, and Sherlock took her wrist, pinning it gently to her back, their bodies close enough now that he could feel the stiff tips of her breasts through her dress, and the heat between her legs as they widened to accommodate him. Without really intending to, he gathered up the hem of her coral summer shift and let his hand wander under her skirt. Over her knee, up her smooth thigh, he stopped at the edge of her knickers. Pushing between the elastic and her warm skin, he caressed the crease at the top of her leg with the pad of his thumb, delighting in the hint of dampness already coating her skin. _Oh_ , it felt good. So good in fact, that it made his genitals practically buzz with arousal. _What an odd sensation_.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

It was his turn now to hum a reply, distracted as he was by the way the skin just beneath her ear tasted faintly of salt, and the smell of her hair – cucumber and green tea – made him feel light headed as he buried his nose in it and breathed her in.

 

“I thought we were going to just talk?”

 

His thumb pushed higher, toward the down coved mound beneath her cotton pants. “We are talking. I just gave you an instruction, and now you’re going to comply. Tell me what else you like?”

 

Molly’s free hand came up to tangle in his hair. Nails, clipped short, raked through his curls, and as they tightened Molly pulled just enough that his sensitive follicles tingled in a way that ran straight from his scalp to his cock.

 

“Being restrained. Not like fifty shades of wotsit, but, you know, held down, and…and…sometimes…”

 

“Yes?” he pushed her on.

 

Molly screwed her eyes shut, her cheeks crimson, “Spanked.”

_Oh_ , this was going to be so much fun. She was delicious this way, needy, aroused by her embarrassment. The way she melted beneath him caused an uptick in his libido that felt like an intoxicating mixture of the desire to claim and simultaneously protect her. Never ever had he felt that with one of his lovers. Molly, as always, was turning out to be ever so unexpected.

 

“And what about these?” Sherlock rubbed the edge of her knickers between his fingers. “Do they stay or do they go?”

 

She swallowed. Hard. “What do you mean?”

 

“Bare bottomed or do you want to keep them on?”

 

“On.” She swallowed again and took a heavy breath, “But pulled down.”

 

“Lying over my knee?”

 

Molly bit her lip, nodding emphatically.

_God, she was lovely when she did that_.

 

Sherlock let go of the edge of her knickers and instead cupped her, pressing his middle finger against the gusset until he found the furrow between her legs. Slowly, gently, he began to rub in circles through the wet cotton. 

 

He had expected to feel arousal (otherwise what would be the point?) pleasure even. What he hadn’t expected was the prickling on the back of his neck as his hair stood on end, or the tingling sensation where their skin made contact. When she moaned, he felt his knees go weak, and an oddly undefinable sensation spread through his chest – sort of a pleasant version of a minor heart attack. All he could think about were her lips, and what it would be like to silence the gorgeous sounds she was making by kissing her breathless.

 

Gradually (suddenly? He wasn’t sure) he’d become so desperately turned on that there was simply no waiting any longer. “Anything else you’d like to share before we begin?”

 

*

 

Molly froze.

 

She had gone to Sherlock’s flat with every intention in the world of keeping her head, and despite the fact that, _yes_ , they were probably going to have sex for the first time, she’d also been determined to keep it strictly business. Yet there she was, braced against a table lest she fall down, letting him rummage around in her knickers while she confessed every mortifying detail of her – thus far – fantasy life. Fantasy, because while she’d really rather like to have those things done to her, so far they’d only ever happened in her head – usually while she pictured Sherlock doing them to her as she, _well_ , you know, took matters into her own hands.

 

Tom - God, e _ven Jim -_  had been boring as fuck in bed. Part of her, a part that she didn't care to examine at that moment, wondered if she'd somehow been waiting her whole life for Sherlock to come along.

 

The truth would be humiliating, even though there was a part of her that was curiously turned on at the thought of saying it out loud, especially as Sherlock was still standing between her legs, his erection hard as steel where it pressed into her thigh.

 

The realisation hit that she was going to get to see him naked. After today, she would know what his prick looked like, how it tasted, how it felt. He’d be inside her, and instead of relying on her imagination she’d know for sure what sounds he made when he took her, what beautiful noises he would make when he was close, what he sounded like when he came. Even if it never happened again, she’d always be able to draw on the memories of his hands, his mouth—

 

“I, um—” she began, fumbling a bit, hating that her cheeks felt hot under the force of his kaleidoscopic stare, but loving the way his long fingers felt as he lifted her chin to make her look him in the eye when she spoke. “You should maybe know that while I’ve wanted to…”

_Oh,_ Sherlock breathed voicelessly, studying her with an intensely curious look in his grey-green eyes. They’d gone wide, surprised, still there was a softness creeping into the way he gazed at her that made her tummy flip.

 

“So you’ve never…?” He eventually said.

 

“Um. No. Not really.”

 

A grin, shark like, toothy, spread out across his beautiful face. He ran a finger down her cheek, and it felt as though little sparks of electricity were shooting out of him and into her. “Would you like to try it now?”

 

Her breathing hitched. “Oh, okay,” she squeaked out in an undignified manner.

 

“Naughty little Molly Hooper,” he positively smouldered. “I’m going to bend you over and make you scream.”

 

Well, when he put it like that…

 

“Bedroom. Now.”

 

… it seemed to her to be a very good idea.

 

And, _Oh God_ , it was really going to happen. Sherlock Holmes was not only going to shag her, but also let her live out every impure though she’d ever had about him in glorious technicolour detail.

 

Cliché that it was, she went weak at the knees.

 

And that was when she felt it. An unmistakable vibration.

 

*

 

“You’re buzzing, Sherlock.”

 

God, she didn’t know the half of it. He was buzzing. He was flying. Deliriously and deliciously drunk on the taste of her and the prospect of the evening ahead. His blood sang with the music of a thousand violins as it coursed southward through his veins.

 

“I am,” he said, taking her hand and leading her off toward his bedroom. “Give me five minutes and you will be too.”

 

Damnable woman that she was, Molly stopped in her tracks, laughing. “No!”

 

She giggled so prettily that it anchored him to the spot while he caught his breath. (Prettily? _Prettily?_ Why was she doing things so _prettily?_ When in hell’s name had that started?)

 

Molly pointed at his hip. “Your phone. It’s buzzing.”

 

Perplexed, he searched his trouser pockets, and yes, his phone was there, text and call alerts flashing like Christmas lights on Oxford Street: Three missed calls, two text messages.

 

Finally he caught on. _Oh_. So _that_ had been where the buzzing sensation was coming from. Absurdly, he was rather disappointed to find that Molly didn’t have magical lady parts after all, and that Lestrade had been the source of the erotic sensation emanating from his pants.

 

“Irrelevant.” Whatever it was, it was going to have to wait. For once, the Yarders would have to be big boys and girls and solve a case on their own.

 

“Now where were we?” he asked, once again pulling her along. “Oh yes! I was going to take your knickers down and put you over my knee.”

 

She did that pretty giggling thing again as she let herself be half led, half dragged, causing his breathing to go funny. Lopsided and utterly real despite his machinations, he grinned at her. There was a thought, fleeting though it was, that for the first time in a long time he felt happy.

 

And it was Molly who had made it happen.

 

They’d just made it to the partition between the kitchen and living room when Mrs Hudson appeared in his doorway, knocking on the wooden frame, “Woo-hoo, anyone home?”

 

“ _Oh for God’s sake.”_ Sherlock muttered under his breath. “No,” he shouted in her general direction. “Now _PISS OFF_.”

 

“You have a visitor, Dear,” she said without so much as blinking at the vulgarity. “Says he tried to call but you weren’t answering.”

 

“Well,” Sherlock turned on his heels and abandoned Molly to intercept the old girl, who he took by the shoulders and turned about, shoving her in the direction of the stairs. “That should tell Lestrade something about how welcome he is right now.”

 

Mrs Hudson made a valiant attempt to stay on message. “Oh, it isn’t Greg.”

 

“Don’t care. Goodbye.” He deposited her on the landing, and turned to go back inside.

 

He’d very nearly made it too, when a voice, masculine but smooth as caramel came from the stairwell, “I’m terribly sorry, have I happened upon you at an inconvenient moment?”

 

The owner of it effortlessly took the stairs two at a time with long legs that reminded Sherlock vaguely of a giraffe, reaching the top step around the same time as Mrs Hudson, who tipped her head back toward Sherlock as if to say to the stranger, _That’s him, good luck to you_.

 

Not one of the usual Yarders, this one was an inch or two taller than Sherlock, with dark blond hair that was swept back from his face and slightly curling at the ends. He fitted the social construct of a traditionally handsome man, even if he was perhaps a little boyish for his age – thirty six, if Sherlock had to guess. His suit was smart, bespoke, far too good for someone on a public service wage, and covered by his fashionable frames were blue-grey eyes that fixed on him as he smoothly extended his hand, smiling in what could only be described as in a winning manner.

 

“DI Timothy Hamilton. I’m so thrilled to finally meet the great Mr Sherlock Holmes. It’s truly an honour.”

 

Sherlock paused on the threshold staring at the offered appendage. “I’m sure that it is.”

 

There was something about the man that immediately put Sherlock on high alert. Call it intuition, call it whatever you may, but there was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that both began and ended with DI Hamilton, one he didn’t very much care for.

 

“I’ve been referred to you by Gregory Lestrade. He thought you might be able to assist with a somewhat perplexing investigation. The death of a woman – a psychiatrist, Elza Mayer – found hidden in a sack in her airing cupboard.”

 

“I’d say murder is your best bet. People who’ve died of natural causes rarely climb into sacks of their own accord.” Sherlock pursed his lips into an impatient fake grin and popped his eyes at the DI, grabbing him about the shoulders and ushering him toward the stairs as he’d done with Mrs Hudson. “Case solved. Thank you for calling, now run along.”

 

When Sherlock turned, Molly was standing in the doorway staring at the DI over his shoulder. She had straightened her hair and re-buttoned her dress, and was looking far too put together for Sherlock’s liking.

 

“Elza Mayer?”

 

DI Hamilton looked back at her with interest, “I’m sorry, are you familiar with the case?”

 

“Um, she was on my list yesterday. I wrote the post-mortem report on her case,” said Molly, “I’m—”

 

“—Doctor Hooper,” he finished. “I know you by reputation, of course. I’ve recently read your seminal work on tool mark analysis of bones in mutilation cases. Fascinating stuff. I’m Detective Inspector Timothy Hamilton. But everyone just calls me Tim.”

 

He reached around Sherlock and took Molly’s hand, shaking it warmly. When it ended, they stood there, still holding hands and looking at each other, both blushing slightly.

 

“Please, call me Molly,” she smiled shyly. “Have you read my report on Ms Mayer? There were some very unusual puncture wounds in her neck.”

 

“I was actually on my way to Bart’s to review your notes when Lestrade suggested I call here. His voice softened, and he rubbed his thumb over the back of Molly’s hand in what seemed to be an entirely unconscious gesture. “And what a fortunately timed visit it is too.”

 

Uncharacteristically, Sherlock was speechless. The DI was…was he actually _flirting_ with Molly? _His_ Molly? Right in front of him?

 

The brazen pawing of his…his…whatever she was, seemed to go on interminably. As did the lingering smiles they were flashing at each other. Sherlock could almost see sunlight and sparkles emanating from the pair. Any second now rainbows would begin shooting out of Just-Tim’s eyes, and Molly’s would turn heart shaped as they bulged out on stalks.

 

Scowling at their joined hands didn’t seem to be doing anything at all to separate them. Neither did his willing the DI to spontaneously combust.

 

In his chest a fist clenched over his lungs.

 

Something had to be done.

 

Quickly.

 

Sherlock grabbed his Belstaff from where it hung on the back of the door and spun Molly around.

 

She blinked at him, seemingly somewhat surprised to find he was even there: For the life of him, he couldn’t quite convince himself that was a good thing.

 

With one eye on the DI, he held the back of Molly’s head and kissed her cheek. Giving her a look of blatant heat, he turned on _The Voice_. “I’ll have this solved in an hour. Wait here and we can pick up where we left off.”

 

“If you’re going to discuss one of my cases, perhaps I should go with you?”

 

While he would later reflect that he should have spoken up sooner, that his reactions should have been much faster, at that precise moment his brain was stuttering on the scent of Molly’s skin when he had bent to kiss her cheek, and the way her slightly tousled hair made him think of sex and bed and now. As it was, he could barely get enough resistance together to ignore his cock as it showed a renewed interest in proceedings, never mind execute a higher cognitive function.

 

“Would you? I’d be very grateful for any insights you might be able to offer,” came the voice of Just-Tim from the top of the stairs.

 

Sherlock was still trying to get his thinking back on track when he realised that he should be devoting some attention to coming up with a reason why that wouldn’t be necessary. But before he could do much about it, Molly had ducked under his arm and grabbed her bag and coat.

 

Charming bastard that he was, Just-Tim stepped aside to allow her down the stairs, grinning at her like a bloody moron as she went, leaving Sherlock standing there wondering what the hell’s blazes had just happened.


	4. The butterfly effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I haven't been clear about the timeline, I apologise, you can blame it on me not having a beta, I know that's what I'm going to do ;) This fic is set in roughly the same timeline as season 4 but is canon divergent after Mary gets shot.

  

> **_I need to have a DI removed from a case. Preferably also from Britain. Calling in a favour._ **
> 
> **_SH_ **
> 
>  
> 
> _I should think, brother dear, that you haven’t got many of those left._
> 
> _MH_
> 
>  
> 
> **_Then you may regard this as an IOU. Details attached._ **
> 
>  
> 
> _This wouldn’t have something to do with yours and Miss Hooper’s new arrangement, would it?_
> 
>  
> 
> **_Piss off, Mycroft._ **

 

* * *

 

It was one of those Sunday mornings that hardly ever happened in London. Late spring, sun shining, the air fresh and warm despite the early hour. There was a distant hum of weekend traffic, and the sound of kids playing. Around Regent’s Park Lake picnic blankets and folding chairs were spread out, beige city dwellers already turning neon pink.

 

There had been another of those dreams again last night. This time there was a song, the words of which he couldn’t understand or even remember, but the melody had stuck in his head and he’d picked at it half the night like a scab that was still raw beneath. Around three he’d gotten up and shouldered his violin, getting the notes down on paper before they drifted off and disappeared forever in that way that three in the morning thoughts often did.

 

Sherlock hadn’t slept for the rest of the night. 

 

The song had played over and over in his head as he lay awake resolutely not thinking about Molly and the way she’d looked at Just-Tim – who by now should be on a flight to somewhere refreshingly cold for this time of year. 

 

The sunglasses were helping. A bit. The deerstalker too. But he had an uncomfortable feeling in his chest that he couldn’t quite explain and a headache that refused to go away. 

 

It was probably a brain aneurysm. 

 

Or he was having a heart attack. 

 

Maybe it was both. 

 

At least by the bandstand it was quiet, peaceful. Sherlock sat on the edge, legs stretched out, hands clasped between his thighs and tried again to shake the feeling of wrongness that had been slowly settling on him in the last few days.

 

“Hung over? Or are you trying not to be recognised?” Mary cast a shadow over him as she stood there, hands on hips, smiling down at him.

 

He took his dark glasses off and squinted up at her. “Just trying something new,”

 

“Because if you’d rather people didn’t know it was you, you should lose the hat.”

 

He tugged at the brim, a little self-consciously. “It keeps the sun out of my eyes.” Then sulking only slightly, “People like the hat.”

 

“ _John_  likes it,” she corrected. “He’s the only one.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something then, wisely, snapped it shut.

 

“I can’t stay long,” she told him. When she sat down beside him, he handed her a tea from one of the kiosks that had just re-opened for the summer season. “John’s got Rosie and he’s on call this weekend.”

 

“You could have brought her.”

 

“Not on cases. Told you before, I don’t want my little girl’s first word to be murder.”

 

Sherlock made a little noise in the back of his throat that sounded like he would have approved of that if it had been one of his kids. His daughter, maybe. She’d be brown eyed and bright, her nose cute as a button. Not that he thought much about having kids. 

 

Or at all.

 

“How is my goddaughter?”

 

Mary blew out a sigh, watching the happy families by the lake. She fiddled with her take-away tea, distractedly picking pieces of cardboard off the corrugated collar. “Oh, you know babies.”

 

He quirked an eyebrow at her that plainly stated,  _no_ , he really didn’t.

 

“She’s still not a hundred percent forgiven me for running off to Marrakesh, but it’s getting better.”

 

He glanced at her then away, staring off into the distance. “And John?”

 

“Still not a hundred percent forgiven me for running off to Marrakesh, but it’s getting better,” Mary parroted, trying to laugh it off. She sounded tired. No — worse than that — she sounded defeated. 

 

“You know you could call him, Sherlock. Ask him for yourself?”

 

“John doesn’t want to talk to me. He’s made his feelings on the matter perfectly clear.”

 

“You know, you’re not half as clever as you think you are—”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “People never tire of reminding me.”

 

“—so I’m going to tell you a secret.”

 

Sherlock gasped with fake alarm. “You mean you have more??!!” 

 

Mary refused to take the bait. “You think John’s angry with you for what happened at the aquarium. He’s not.” She hesitated for what felt like the longest time. Eventually seeming to come to a decision, she blew out a breath, “He’s angry at himself for cheating on me and he’s taking it out on you because he doesn’t want to deal with what he’s done.”

 

“Wha—  _No._  John wouldn’t… _”_

 

“Except he did. With some woman he met not long after Rosie was born.” There was another flurry of cardboard bits falling from her fingers and Mary sighed shakily. “His phone went off after he’d fallen asleep on the sofa one night a few weeks ago. I thought it might be you so I looked.”

 

“And?”

 

“It was a text that said,  _I miss you...Do you miss me?_  Not much to go on, but I knew.” 

 

Mary was looking at him, her entire body rigid with tension. But her eyes, _oh her eyes_ , there was something else entirely different in them. She was heartbroken. And John had done that to her.

 

It made no difference to Sherlock that John was being a cock to  _him_. That was John’s form, he was well used to being on the receiving end of his short-man syndrome rage. But being a cock to Mary was quite another matter. 

 

“I’ll—” Best not to say what he was going to do to the woman when he found her. Or to John for that matter. “Give me her number. I’ll deal with this.”

 

Mary shook her head slightly, “Already taken care of.”

 

“Taken care of how?”

 

“I called in a favour. I figured after Amo Mycroft owed me.”

 

“Oh for—  _Mycroft?!_   Why didn’t you come to me?”

 

They frowned at each other.

 

“I couldn’t. I didn’t want it to be another thing that came between you and John. Besides, you might have told him and I couldn’t risk that. It’s done and dusted now anyway.  _Resolved_  was the word your brother used.”

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “What does that even mean?” 

 

“I’m not sure. I gave him the number and asked that he get a name and address, that’s all I wanted. But, a few days later he turned up while John was at work and told me she wouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

 

“And just like that it’s over? You forgive him?”

 

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  _That was it??_  No punishment, no recrimination? John was getting off scot free?

 

“No but—  When you love someone, really love them, Sherlock, you fight for them with every ounce of strength in your body. John and I are right for each other. I know we are. He made a mistake, but then who hasn’t? It’s what we do after that that matters. That’s why he mustn’t know that I know. It would destroy him and that would destroy us.”

 

Mary took his hand.

 

“Do you see now? This isn’t about you. You’ve got to try to remember that. He loves you really –  _loves both of us_  – he’ll come ‘round. But you’ve got to keep reminding him that you’re there, it’ll make it easier for him to save face when he figures out what’s really going on.”

 

By now his tea had gone cold, and Sherlock was gazing out over the water. Right there and then he no longer cared if John ever spoke to him again. He could hardly breathe with the anger that was swelling inside of him.

 

How could John have done that?  To take the love of a woman that  _he_  was supposed to love and care for, to use that love and betray it, to lie to her while he schemed behind her back and manipulated her into believing—

_Oh—_

_God_ —

 

No. This wasn’t remotely the same as him and Molly.

_Was it?_

 

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his mouth feeling himself pale, his blood beginning to run cold.

 

“Do you want to talk about what’s going on with you?” Mary said softly, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.

 

She knew. Mary always knew. 

 

“There’s nothing going on with me.”

 

She sucked in a deep breath. “I love you, you know I do. But you’re wrapped in seven blankets of bullshit.”

 

“How very eloquent. Is that a quote from Shakespeare?”

 

“For once in your life could you please take something seriously?” 

 

“Mary—”

 

“Molly Hooper is a decent person—”

 

“I know that.”

 

“—she doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”

 

Sherlock tutted petulantly. “I’m not going to hurt her. Why do people always assume the worst of me?” 

 

“Do you want the list alphabetically or chronologically?”

 

“You fake your death  _one time_ and people never let you live it down,” he said to no one in particular. 

 

“You don’t deserve to be hurt either, Sherlock.”

 

“Look,” he said. “Molly Hooper is an adult.  _We’re both adults_. What we do in private is no one else’s business.”

 

And because he didn’t know how else to tell her that he loved her and that he would be forever grateful that she loved him too, he simply kissed her on the cheek. 

 

“Now, can we please end the  _sharing is caring_  portion of the conversation and discuss more pressing matters?”

 

There was a pause, ending when Mary sighed and held her hands up, pulling back reluctantly. Her lips pressed together tightly, she was half frowning with eyes so full of sympathy that he had to look away because he felt something inside of him crack. 

 

“Fine, have it your way. Go be an adult and shag half of London for all I care. I’ve only got another ten minutes before I’ve got to go back anyway. So the case? Give me what you’ve got so far.”

 

From inside his coat he took out a manila envelope, grateful that – for now at least – he had something other than himself to put under a metaphorical microscope. “A woman found in a sack, locked in her airing cupboard. Elza Mayer, aged fifty two, recently moved to a new home in Mulberry Hill where she conducted her private practice. No known—”

 

“Wait,” Mary muttered. “Why does that sound familiar?”

 

“Mulberry Hill? It’s just a few minutes from John’s surgery.”

 

“No. Not the address. The dead woman’s name. Say it again.”

 

“Elza Mayer.” His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head, “You’ve heard it somewhere before?”

 

“Maybe. I dunno.”

 

“Motherhood slowing you down?”

 

Mary gave him her best side-eye, “If I had to guess I’d say I’m a bit slow because I’m recovering from a gunshot wound.”

 

“Point taken. Moving swiftly along...” said Sherlock, grinning now as he laid out the case notes for her. 

 

* * *

 

“The least you can do is let me choose the radio station.” 

 

An hour into the Monday afternoon drive to Sussex for one of their contract’s ‘No Plans In Advance’ exceptions, and Molly was still pissed with Sherlock for running out on their very first arranged hook-up like his arse had been on fire.

 

A little voice in the back of her head reminded her that the reason she got into this…whatever it was with Sherlock was to clarify where she stood. And Saturday evening had provided clarity on one thing for sure: she was nowhere on his list of priorities when something more interesting to do came along.

 

At least Tim had been sweet about it. 

 

It was sort of nice to be the object of someone’s attention instead of the one offering it. She’d kind of forgotten that. He’d been gracious too, a real gentleman, considering how obvious it must have been that he’d caught them in the middle of something, flushed as she was, hair all a mess. But he hadn’t said a word, and,  _God_ , it had been nice for once not to be torn apart by a list of deductions fired off one after the other just so  _someone else_  could feel impressive.

 

Without noticing that she’d done it, her hand went to her pocket and Molly touched her phone. 

_Are you and he…?_  Tim had asked her that day at the lab, glancing in the general direction Sherlock had stormed off in while furiously typing out a text message on his phone.

 

For a moment she wasn’t sure how to answer, but in the end she’d said  _no_. Because they  _weren’t_. The truth was she and Sherlock were something and nothing all at once. Mostly nothing, if the way he’d ditched her for a case was anything to go by.

 

The text from the new DI inviting her out for coffee came barely an hour later. 

 

Molly still hadn’t replied to it.

 

“Driver picks the radio station,” cutting in on her thoughts, Sherlock declared it with the maturity of a nine year old.  _Which,_ she supposed,  _was what he was most of the time._  “Besides, you’d choose Sad-arse FM for the over forties with its Celine Dion power ballads and dad-rock.”

 

“No I wouldn’t.” 

 

To be honest, she was impressed he even knew who Celine Dion was. And he was wrong. Ish. Her tastes ran more toward that Cheryl person off the X-Factor – Molly was a whole two years younger than Sherlock, she was still hip, down with the kids and stuff. “But even if I did, it’d be better that the boring classical shit you listen to.”

 

“It’s not boring. It’s cultured,” he pouted, glancing at her then back at the road. “Something you’d know nothing about.”

 

“ _Puh_ -lease,” said Molly. “I’ve seen you eat cold baked beans straight from the tin and go without underpants because Mrs Hudson wasn’t around to do your washing. Don’t try to bullshit me that you’re cultured. I know exactly who you are.” 

 

He turned to her fully, his expression somewhere between affronted and amused. “Oh you do, do you?”

 

“For my sins,” she dead panned as the car rolled to a stop outside what had to be the prettiest cottage she’d ever seen. 

 

Georgian, red bricked, though faded now with age to a mellow umber. A flagstone path was edged with lavender and led to a sage green doorway surrounded by clematis only just come into flower. 

 

“Are we here?”

 

“No,” said Sherlock, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I just thought I’d pull in and admire the guttering.”

 

He stepped out of the car and was sweeping up the path toward the waiting estate agent before she got the chance to tell him to sod off. Pity, that.

 

It was then that she realised—

_Bollocks._  

 

She’d never asked him what kind of case they were here for.

_Oh well._ It wouldn’t be the first time that she didn’t have a clue what was going on.

 

*

 

_The average person checked their mobile fifty one times a day. That was three times every hour, deducting time for sleep._

_Molly and he had been in the car for eighty minutes, give or take, and even though she wasn’t driving she hadn’t once checked her phone. Yet, now and then, her hand would reach inside her pocket to touch it._

_Initial deduction: She wanted to look at it, but didn’t want to draw attention to that fact._

_Subsequent deduction: Molly was attempting to hide something from him._

_Conclusion: Just-Tim was a sneaky bastard who’d managed to get hold of Molly’s phone number._

_Sherlock plastered on his best plastic smile for the agent who was waiting for them in the open doorway, wishing he’d remembered to bring his sunglasses because his goddamn headache was back again._

_He consoled himself that at least he’d finally found a use for Mycroft. With any luck DI Hamilton was already on his way to Siberia._

 

*

 

They made it through the entire viewing without incident, which was nothing short a miracle considering the mood Sherlock had been in for most of the afternoon.

 

He’d been in a snit over heaven only knew what, and had ignored her for the first fifteen minutes they’d been there, so Molly had wandered outside by herself, breathing in the salty sea air, letting the sound of the ocean wash over her rather than deal with whatever stick he had up his arse that day.

 

At least the cottage was a nice place to spend an hour or two.

 

No matter where you were in the house or in the grounds there was a view of either the sea or rolling countryside. And the gardens – _God, the gardens –_ were like something off a chocolate box, complete with rose beds and an oak tree that had a rope swing hanging from its boughs.

 

Without ever knowing that she’d wanted it, Molly saw herself raising children somewhere just like it, living a life, growing old with someone she loved.

 

Out of nowhere, a wave of sadness hit her, and the pointlessness of this thing she’d gotten herself into with Sherlock became undeniably clear.

_Maybe,_ she thought, _it was time to let the fantasy of him go._

 

She’d been dwelling on that, staring out over the sea, when Sherlock came to stand silently at her shoulder.

 

Molly pulled the edges of her cardigan tightly around her and folded her arms over her chest. “Did you find what you came for?”

 

Sherlock’s voice was a little lost, uncertain even. “I really don’t know.”

 

She turned to him then. That funny little wrinkle at the top of his nose had appeared, and he was looking at her with a strange intensity. Starlight-silver that day, his eyes kept flicking to her lips.

 

Carefully, he tucked a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her pony tail behind her ear, letting his thumb brush over her cheekbone, something inside her head buzzing at his touch.

 

Molly’s tummy flipped, cartwheeled and did a handstand, landing her right slap-bang back in the centre of fantasy land once again.

_Damn it._

 

*

_Damn it._

 

For a fraction of a second he couldn’t breathe and he’d become light-headed with surprising speed. Which had nothing to do with the way that Molly had closed her eyes and exhaled softly through her sweet, pink lips when he touched her. Definitely not. The dizziness he was experiencing could only be, probably (possibly), a side effect of the brain aneurysm that he definitely (maybe) had.

 

No. Molly’s lips were not a factor.

 

Proof: It wasn’t the first time that day he’d experienced those same symptoms. Earlier, when he’d been in the house alone, he’d found his way into an upstairs room. Standing by the window, he’d watched Molly as she walked in the garden. Her back was to him, the breeze catching loose strands of her hair, her delicate fingers smoothing them down. Suddenly, there was the sound of blood rushing in his ears and his heart was beating so fast that it made his hands shake. The episode had refused to pass but then he’d closed his eyes and took ten deep breaths, gripping the edge of the window for support, and eventually everything had gone back to normal. That _clearly_ had nothing to with Molly’s lips because he couldn’t even see her face from that angle.

 

So there, _proof_.

 

Standing in that same garden now, she was peering up at him, her huge brown eyes soft. “Are you all right? You look a bit flushed.”

 

“I, ah—” _Brain aneurysm_ “Was wondering if you have plans for tonight.” 

 

“Oh.”

 

She honest to god blushed.

_Bugger._

 

“Do you mean for a— a—”

 

Sherlock touched her cheek again, nodding.

 

Molly hesitated, fiddling with her cardigan. “Don’t you have a case?”

_Oh_. While the left hemisphere of his brain was busy looking for the correct answer to that question (because, _yes_ , he did have a case but he was avoiding all things Elza until DI Hamilton began his sabbatical in the Urals) the right side staged a coup, managing by complete chance to say what turned out to be the right thing without any input from Sherlock.

 

“I’d rather be with you.”

 

Molly’s eyes fell shut, a small, crooked smile on her lips. She slowly shook her head from side to side in a way that could only be interpreted as disbelief.

 

Maybe at him.

 

Maybe at herself.

 

“Right. Okay then. You’re on.”

 

“Yes?”

 

Molly beamed at him. “Yes.”

 

Little victories, he reminded himself, were how wars were won.

 

There would be no interruptions tonight, he’d see to that. Phones would be switched off, doors would be locked. Mrs Hudson would be slipped an extra soother. Or three.

 

And he would give Molly everything that she needed.

 

Sherlock smiled and put a hand on her back, guiding her to their hire car, feeling for the first time in days as though his plan was back on track.

 

* * *

 

Despite every effort to keep his little brother out of trouble, Mycroft Holmes was failing spectacularly. 

 

The list of misadventures for the last year alone included, but was not limited to,

 

-A relapse into drug use,

 

-A fake engagement,

 

-Getting himself shot,

 

-A tabloid scandal,

 

-Becoming a murderer,

 

-A four minute exile,

 

-A second relapse, this time including an overdose: because this was Sherlock, who strove for elevation in every field he pursued,

 

-Causing the near death of his best friend’s wife, and,

 

-Losing said best friend over same.

 

This week, however, Sherlock was outdoing himself in a manner that Mycroft could never have predicted. So far he’d, 

 

-Entered into some sort of contract with Miss Hooper for the provision of sexual services, the nature of which, thus far, was undetermined, as was Sherlock’s motivation,

 

-Gone house shopping in the countryside with his new paramour,

 

-Attempted to bribe a government official, 

 

-Attempted to interfere in a police investigation,

 

-Then last, _but by no means least_ , stumbled into a decades’ old conspiracy to keep the continued existence of their sister a secret from the world by means of perpetuating a fabricated memory of a dog, which had been substituted by the ever sentimental Sherlock for a murdered boy.

 

And it was only Monday.

 

“Are you telling me that you missed part of your sister’s plan?” Lady Smallwood, Mycroft could tell, was attempting to sound patient, but not doing a very good job of it.

 

He loosened his tie and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Evidentially so,” he said a little more tersely than he should have.

 

“How has it come to light now?”

 

“The Metropolitan Police asked for my brother’s assistance with a case, he in turn brought it to my attention.” Best not to get into the finer details of why Sherlock had come to him, cap in hand.

 

Alicia poured herself a brandy, one for Mycroft too. “He can’t be allowed to investigate. Need I remind you, Mycroft, that Sir Edwin and I have put our necks on the line to help you cover up your sister’s escape from Sherrinford. If this gets out—”

 

“It won’t.”

 

She pursed her lips. “You’d better be right about that.”

 

“The police investigation is easily taken care of, and I have well practiced methods of dealing with my brother.”

 

“You plan to remove him from the case?”

 

“No. He’d never allow that. He’s far too stubborn for me to try to curtail his activities. Besides _,_  he’d know I was up to something if I got in his way.”

 

“Then how?”

 

Mycroft glanced at the Metropolitan Police personnel file on his desk. DI Hamilton’s handsome smile beamed back at him from his staff ID photo as though they were conspiring against Sherlock. Which, he supposed, they were, _after a fashion_. 

 

Mycroft frowned at the woman sat opposite him, feeling like a complete and utter bastard.

 

“My intention, dear Lady, is to distract him.” 


	5. A little less conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't have a beta. Please forgive the typos, I swear they weren't there before I hit post.

 

“Let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we?”

 

“Oh. Um…Okay.”

 

There had been quite enough talking, thank you very much, now it was time for a little more action. Sherlock closed the bedroom door, locking it behind him (couldn’t be too careful: He’d slipped Mrs H two of Wiggins’ special blend soothers, but one never could be sure with the old dear – she’d built up quite a bit of tolerance to pharmaceuticals over the years). Taking Molly by the wrist, he led her to the side of his bed and turned her so that she faced the room’s only chair while he stood at her back.

 

Her head dipped and turned as she tried to watch what he was doing from over her shoulder. Confused, her eyes flicked to the bed. “Should I…?

 

“No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.” He raised his hand and pulled at the band that held her pony tail, letting long strands fall loose over her shoulders, his fingers raking through it all the way from her scalp to the ends. He kept his touch deliberately light, gentle, sweeping her hair to one side while he skimmed his fingertips over her neck. The down at her nape stood on end, her skin rising in a daisy chain of goose bumps all along the path his fingers had taken. Already blushing, _soft little thing that she was_ , her breathing deepened.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Hmm? _”_ he hummed, kissing down the side of her neck letting his hands drift to her waist, his fingers slipping beneath her blouse searching for bare skin. Molly jumped when he touched her, giggling just a bit. The sound was adorable. God, _she_ was adorable. Even her neck was cute. He wanted to chew on it like a puppy with a slipper.

 

“Are there, um… do we need…” she scrunched her nose, “ _safe words_ or something?”

 

 _Good God._ Where did she get that ridiculous idea from? Probably one of those trashy paperbacks she kept hidden in her bedside locker. “This isn’t that kind of scene.” _Honestly,_ he tried not to tut out loud _, Mills and Boon had a lot to answer for_. “If you want to stop, you say stop. If you need a moment you say _I need a moment_. If you want more, then tell me _more_. Alright?”

 

Sherlock waited until she nodded that she understood, sighing, surrendering, as he held her still. He wouldn’t have to gentle her along, Molly was more than willing and perfectly capable of asking for what she wanted, yet that touch of naivety, her doe like innocence, was strangely thrilling.

_Odd._

 

There was that urge again, to gnaw on her like a chew toy.

 

Maybe lick her too.

_Yum-yum._

 

With what little self-control he could muster he stepped away and crossed to the chair opposite his bed, rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows as he went. Molly’s gaze flitted to his bare forearms and she held her breath for just a beat too long, almost salivating at the sight. _Good. Excellent, in fact._   He sat, one leg draped over the other, uncomfortable because – rather embarrassingly – he was already erect.

 

“Open your blouse. Keep your eyes fixed on me while you do it.”

 

He watched for signs that he’d judged it right: The pulse quickening at the side of her long neck. A sharp, silent inhalation through lips parted in excitement and, _yes_ , a sliver of fear flashing in her eyes, her pupils gone impossibly dark. In her hands there was the barest of tremors. Blood rushing to the surface of her skin, Molly blushed, the rosy stain spreading slowly down her throat, beneath the open neck of her blouse. Her eyes fell shut for a split second and then opened again, shallow breaths blowing over her damp lips.

 

Sherlock uncrossed his legs as he watched her fingers find their way to the first button, then the second. “I’m going to ask you questions as we proceed. Don’t lie. I’ll know if your answers aren’t truthful. Understood?”

 

“Um...Okay.”

 

“Question one. Do you find it embarrassing to be made to undress while I sit here watching you?”

 

Molly swallowed, her fingers flexing around the third button. He’d counted to four in his head before she answered.

 

“A little. Yes.”

 

“Does your embarrassment turn you on?”

 

A small cheeky grin tugged at the corner of her mouth, despite the fact that she was turning crimson. Molly’s eyelashes fluttered, “Yes.”

 

There was nothing hotter than drawn out foreplay with someone who enjoyed the game they were playing, and much to his delight Molly was definitely enjoying it. For all her timidity, she was bold, not afraid to ask for the things she wanted. It was gloriously arousing to watch. Sherlock’s hands rubbed along the inside of his thighs, one settled in his lap, gently teasing his testicles, the other hand opening his trousers and slipping inside, giving himself a taste of what was yet to come. He watched her eyes as they followed his movements. “Are you wet?”

 

For a moment her eyes flick up to his. They were filled with a mischievous gleam that changed her face from pretty to stunning. A triangle of pink tongue darted out and she licked her lips. “Yes.”

 

“Good girl. Carry on,” he gripped himself tighter, his heart beating against his rib cage like impatient fists on a locked door. “When you’ve finished with your blouse, take off your skirt, bra and underpants. In that order.”

_Quickly now_ , he wanted to say but didn’t. It was better this way, slow, tension building between them waiting for the snap bang of breaking strings and final release. Molly seemed to understand that too. It was nothing tasteless, not a strip show, and even though she was somewhat nervous her movements were purposeful and deliberate. There was a certain knowledge behind every flick of her finger freeing each button, every slow slide of fabric over her soft, pale skin that she was giving something to him. She was intensely beautiful that way, lit up, half-stripped at his instruction. In response, Sherlock’s body blazed for her, and when she finally, _finally,_ laid herself completely bare his heart almost stopped beating. A thought, conflicted, confused, crossed his mind that he wanted this always and forever.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured without realising that he’d said it out loud. In his hand he felt his erection grow hotter, heavier. _God_ , the sight of her alone could have made him—

_Was that even possible?_ he wondered. A few hours ago he wouldn’t have believed so, but then again, a few hours ago he would never have believed it was possible to be this hard without stimulation, yet the rigid flesh in his hand was evidence enough to satisfy any assessment of the facts.

 

Dangerously close already, Sherlock squeezed himself, his fingers forming a ring at the base of his cock: Tingling heat seemed to be flaring out from it in every direction, leaving his body through fingers and toes, the ends of his hair. _Fuck_. She was electrifying. Never in a million years would he have imagined just how much.

 

“Turn. I want to see your much lauded tattoos.”

 

The very epitome of obedience, Molly did as she was told. Raising her hands above her head, in all her naked glory, she turned on tip-toes, looking coquettishly at him over her shoulder as she did. _Minx_.

 

She was petite and slender, but so perfectly proportioned that her legs seemed to go on forever, and, _God_ , she had a lovely arse. Round. Firm. Creamy-white. Sherlock found his gaze lingered on it for far longer than was absolutely necessary. Vaguely, he wondered if it would be considered rude to bite it without asking first for permission. _He made a mental note to consult Google later._ That thought wiped from his mind when he saw the two tiny splashes of jet-black ink that ornamented her otherwise flawless skin.

 

At the base of her back, at the spot where it dimpled, just where the cleft of her perfect backside began were two barely there tattoos. One a stylised star no bigger than a thumb print, the other a spherical shape of the same size that could have been a moon. Both were more delicate, more feminine than he would ever have expected them to be. Molly arched her back and neck, her hair falling to her waist almost obscuring them.

 

The sight of her was dizzying, and he completely forgot how to breathe.

 

Wait.

 

No.

 

Cancel the call to the emergency services.

 

He’d just forgotten _to_ breathe.

 

Sherlock rose and stepped up behind her, holding her skull in the palm of his hand, and Molly closed her eyes. There was a heat radiating from her that seemed to pass from right through her skin and into his blood making it sing. Just like cocaine used to do.

_Oh._

_Fuckitty bugger._

 

_That was probably not a good thing._

 

*

 

Sherlock settled both hands on her waist. “Say my name,” he said, fingers gripping tighter. There was a growl in his voice that sent a shiver all the way down to her tail bone.

 

“Your name?”

 

“Yes. I want to hear you say it.”

 

Molly turned to him, her hands going to his to his shoulders, and she stroked down over his arms. _Dear God_ _that felt good_. “Sherlock,” she said softly.

 

With that word he took both her hands in his, holding them loosely at the small of her back and she damn near squeaked with the thrill of it all. He pressed his forehead to hers, noses touching. “Again.”

 

“Sherlock,” Molly’s eyelids fluttered closed, a small smile on her lips as she exhaled his name.

 

“No-no,” he closed his fingers tighter around her wrists. “Keep them open. I want you to look at me.”

 

There was something in the way he said those words. An instruction, but not a detached one, he sounded every bit as affected as she was beginning to feel. His voice had been getting deeper, throatier, as the evening had gone on, but the roughness was laced with something that, had she been with any other man, she might call tenderness. That thought so invasive that, for only the briefest of moments, she allowed herself to pretend that they were something much more than what they in reality were.

 

“I’m going to release them now, but keep your hands where they are.”

 

Slowly, his strong hands let go of hers and roamed over her skin. One cupped her backside, the other held her hip, he pulled her against his body. And, _oh God_ , the scent of him, aftershave and musk, mint and coffee on his breath, a lingering hint of leather: There were practically little wavy lines of deliciousness emanating from him.

 

“Does it deepen your sense of subjugation to be naked when I’m not?”

 

Against her abdomen she felt the fine wool separate where his erection poked through. Hard and unbelievably hot she pressed herself to it, imagining how it would feel inside of her. It was difficult to do as he’d asked: Her thoughts were heavy, like they’d been wrapped in cotton wool, and with her hands behind her back Molly felt as though she would fall over onto the bed at any moment. _Oh_ , wouldn’t that feel good? To lie down, legs parted, Sherlock between them—

 

Sherlock continued his investigation of her as he waited for her answer. One knuckle made a path from between her breasts, down, over her ticklish belly to the very edge of the neatly trimmed hair between her legs where he stopped and waited.

 

“Tell me. Does it?”

 

Molly shuddered, “You know it does.”

 

With that, his finger began to move again, his knuckle pressing firmly into her. She dared to look down between their bodies: The tip of his cock was purple and glistening against the pale pink of her belly, a hint of dark, sparse curls at the base. His bare forearm between them, sinewy and strong, brushed her breast, his hand gently probing the wet furrow between her legs, already pulsating though he’d barely touched her.

 

“You feel like damp rose petals,” his fingertips stroked lightly around the edges of her labia.

 

Sherlock buried his nose in the crook of her neck, inhaled deeply, then kissed her collarbone, “Have you always smelled this way? What _on Earth_ are you wearing?”

 

Molly shivered when he licked over her carotid artery. _Fuuuuuck, he was good at this._ “I suppose, um, it’s just soap.”

 

Sherlock nuzzled at her ear, “You smell like sunlight feels.”

 

Before she could ask what that even meant he began nipping softly at her throat. Instinctively, she tilted her head back and offered herself to his mouth. Beneath the fog that had descended on her brain, Molly distantly registered that the reason why those outrageously plump lips were on her neck and not her mouth was because she had insisted on them not kissing. She regretted that now (yes, it was safer, less intimate that way, but still…) as he sucked at bit at her jaw, his lips drawing her into his blood-hot mouth. She was going mad with the urge to shove her hands into his hair and pull him into a savage kiss.

 

“Can I— Um. I want to touch you.”

 

Sherlock’s arm slipped around her waist and held her tightly. He nodded, allowing her to move her hands, and if Molly didn’t know better she would have sworn that his breath hitched when she plunged her hands into his hair.

 

It was every bit as soft and silky as it looked. Molly let her fingernails scrape at his scalp as she took fistfuls of it in her hands and pulled. Sherlock hummed something against her neck that could have been _Oh Fuck_ , and the vibration of his voice buzzed through her. _Molly_ , he moaned when she did it again.

_Hitachi_ , she decided, _had nothing on Sherlock Holmes._

 

The top of Sherlock’s head was about level with hers as he bent over, and without thinking she turned her face toward his. For a fraction of a second his lips caught on hers, sparks shooting out of him and into her. It was nothing at all, their lips scarcely met, yet she sensed everything – how soft he was, how warm, she knew exactly how rough his tongue would be, how sharp his teeth, that he would fight for control of their kiss and that she would give it to him. Molly gasped and held her breath wanting _more more more_ , but as quickly as they met Sherlock pulled away.

 

He stepped back, his expression sort of shocked. No. Not shocked. _Puzzled._ Complex emotions that Molly couldn’t translate passed over his face. Sherlock’s eyes had gone wide but were oddly soft. He wasn’t breathing, but then neither was she. Something very right or very wrong had just happened and she couldn’t tell which. For what seemed like an eternity they stood there looking dumbly at each other. It was there, on the tip of her tongue to say, _Hang the bloody agreement, I want to kiss you_ , or, _If I can’t kiss you then what’s the point of all this?_ but the words died away, and it was Sherlock who spoke first.

 

“Come along,” he said, clearing his throat and schooling his face into something much calmer he took her by the hand, leading her to his bed.

 

*

 

He was sure his hand was shaking when he took hers.

_This was getting ridiculous._ The headaches had gone, _for now_ , but instead of the dull thud that had plagued him for days, his probable (maybe [definite]) aneurysm seemed to have impaired his judgement and logic. He had almost cocked this entire business up by pulling Molly into a kiss, thereby giving her the upper hand simply because his impulse control (never his strong suit anyway) had gone the way of the Dodo. _For God’s sake_ , it was bad enough that he couldn’t stop himself from sniffing her like a dog in heat, but now something cloying and saccharine inside of him wanted to _cherish_ _her_.

 

Pheromones, probably, causing some kind of primitive instinct to kick in, overriding every reasoned response: Pair bonding, mating chemicals, the desire to fulfil a biological imperative. His lizard brain had never once betrayed him before, but now it had cut a deal with The Crown Prosecution Service and was setting him up to take a fall. Part of him knew he should do something about it, but part of him didn’t care as long as Molly would open her sweet arms and body to him. If he could bury himself deep inside of her, none of this would matter anymore.

_There_.

 

That thought _right there_ was why he didn’t do this with people he cared even remotely for. He would not be a slave to his biological impulses. They’d been distracting him from his purpose and he couldn’t allow it to continue. Correction: _Wouldn’t allow it to continue._

 

As he knelt up on the edge of the bed – pulling Molly with him – he toed off his shoes, feeling dazed but fighting it as best he could. “Hands on the headboard. Don’t let go unless you have my permission to. Understood?”

 

The Pretty Thing (patent pending) she’d been doing for days made a reappearance as she bit at her lip and nodded tightly, looking at him, wide eyed and innocently. Much to his dismay, Sherlock was beginning to think of that expression as endearing.

 

When she turned to face the wall, Sherlock knelt behind her, opening the last three buttons of his shirt and moving it out of his way. Unfastening his trousers he pushed them down just enough that his backside and cock were exposed. It occurred to him as he rolled a condom on that he should have had Molly do it with her mouth: Maybe next time. _Maybe next time he’d have her finish him off that way too._ An itch to be scratched another day. For now though he took her hands in his placing them a shoulder’s width apart on the curved mahogany headboard. Her knuckles turned white and her arms shook as she held them straight.

 

The hands that had covered hers stroked up along her arms, over her shoulders, meeting the top of her spine. Both hands on her neck, he pushed her head down so that it hung between her extended arms. Sherlock tried not to notice just how lovely she was but it was no use: The natural lowlights in her cinnamon coloured hair picked out by the glow of the bedside lamp, her English rose complexion, _so pale_ , contrasting with and complimented by the dark green wallpaper. Lost in those thoughts, he started touching her again. First her scapula, fingertips dragging over smooth skin, then her sides. Molly stiffened, her back arching when he let his hands slip around her ribcage, higher, higher, hands becoming firmer as they strayed toward the underside of her breasts. Thumb and forefinger parting so that they were either side of her nipples without touching.

 

He held there and waited. “Ask for it.”

 

She made a frustrated little sound in the back of her throat. “Please.”

 

“Please _what?”_

 

“Please touch me.”

 

Sherlock squeezed his fingers together, catching her nipples between them and Molly cried out softly.

 

“You like this?”

 

“Mmmm,” she purred as he alternated between kneading and pinching, teasing her until the flesh under his fingers became stiff little peaks.

 

Between his legs his erection throbbed from neglect and the sight of her beneath him. There had been no reason to leave it unattended for so long, but it was. No reason either for him to linger in her pleasure, but he did. He positively _ached_ , but still he didn’t enter her, delaying the inevitable for reasons that his brain was processing too fast for his conscious mind to understand. That was until Molly pushed back against his cock and it slid in to the space between her thighs, giving Sherlock his first taste of her gloriously wet, hot, body and he just couldn’t take any more.

 

While with his left hand he continued to rub her breast, in his right he took himself and slid the tip of his cock along her wet furrow until he found the place where it yielded to him. Slowly, carefully, he pushed just the head inside.

 

Molly gasped, inhaling sharply. “Sherlock,” she moaned, using the headboard for leverage to take him further in, causing Sherlock to wonder how it would feel if she made that sound while his mouth was on hers. That thought quickly followed by a wave of useless regret that he might never know.

 

In lieu of doing what he wanted, he did what was allowed to and bent his head, kissing her back. “Patience.”

 

 _Patience! Ha! He was a fine one to talk_. If the sight of her was enough to take his breath away, it was nothing to the way she felt, her body surrounding his. Not fully seated, not yet, it was unbelievably good, better than anything he’d imagined. Scant inches in, he was already hovering on the edge of orgasm from the pressure alone.

 

Movement. He needed movement. Sherlock pushed forward into the tight grip her body had on his, willing his climax away until — _there!_ — he was deep enough inside her that he could let go of his cock. He reached around her, letting his fingers glide up her inner thigh until they found their way into her labia. The pad of his thumb on that one sweet place that would give her the most pleasure, he caressed her, rubbing in gentle circles that grew faster, firmer as Molly slid up and down on his erection and rocked against his hand.

 

The sound of his own moaning shocked him. Low and dirty, sounds that he’d never made before spilled from his lips. Grunting, straining, wanting more, but holding himself back to let Molly set her own pace. The whole world became distant pinpricks of colour and light as she rode him, the sounds of the city streets muffled, only Molly and the noises they made together standing out in stark relief against everything else.

 

Her rhythm steady, her body stroking his cock like a clenched fist, he felt the heat of her pressing against his sack then sliding off until just the tip remained inside.

 

*

 

Molly sped up. Her arms trembled as she tried to grip the headboard to stay upright as she fucked herself on Sherlock’s cock. The hand between her legs was now mimicking the one on her breast, and he pinched and squeezed her roughly.

 

“Please. I—” she gasped, not needing to tell him anything more.

 

Sherlock shifted his hips, changed the angle and with one arm wrapped around her waist he pulled her against him and began to fuck her harder, faster.

 

She was panting, moaning like a whore. She didn’t care. She could feel every part of him push and strain to penetrate her as deeply as he could. She imagined she could feel every ridge, every vein as he pushed into her in long strokes that stretched and filled her, touching everywhere inside all at once.

 

Molly fought the rising tension in her body not wanting _this_ to end, throwing her head back only to find that Sherlock seemed to have been waiting for her to do just that because he began mouthing at her bared throat. Breath moist, teeth scraping, he bit-kissed-licked as she made embarrassing noises that at least served the purpose of stopping her from begging him for she knew not what.

 

“Breathe,” Sherlock’s voice was so rough, so low, that she felt it vibrate under her skin. “Let yourself go.”

 

She was so close to coming now, that his lips on her neck and the probing of his fingers as he thrust up in to her did it. More like the release of a pressure valve than just an orgasm, Molly tried to do as he said and breathe through it, but the air seemed to be sucked from her lungs and everything was going white as starbursts of light ignited behind her squeezed shut eyelids. And then she was beneath him, Sherlock pinning her to the bed, holding her down as he rutted into her, shouting a strangled noise as he came too.

 

*

 

When he came to his senses, Molly was still under him. Warm and soft, her body glowing, her lips ruddy: Without conscious thought, Sherlock reached out and rubbed his fingertips over them. Molly – _clever, clever Molly_ – swept her tongue over each as they passed.

 

Next time he’d have that mouth, and then give her his.

_Next time_.

 

His heart soared at the thought. Or maybe it was another heart attack. Either way, it felt wonderful.

 

Satisfied and content, drowsy, his brain awash with post-coital chemicals he tied off the condom, rid himself of his clothes, and covered them both with the blankets. Sherlock bared her neck of the extravagant mass of hair that clung to it and mouthed at her gently. Skin to skin for the first time, he pressed his front to her back, everything still pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.

 

“I’m starving,” he mumbled. Blinking blearily, he settled his head on her shoulder feeling something very like happy. _Not that happiness was relevant. Not even remotely_. “Fancy a curry?”

 

Molly shifted, half turning to him. She looked— _well_ , he didn’t know how she looked, only that he didn’t like it. Not one little bit.

 

“Sherlock. No. Um…”

 

Sherlock’s insides turned cold as the fuzziness cleared. “A chinese then. I know a place just off Dorset Street, the owner—”

 

“I should go.”

 

“No. You shouldn’t,” he said emphatically.

 

“Don’t do this. Please. It’s what we agreed to.”

 

“Oh for God’s sake!” he huffed (maybe he shouted). _Were they really back to that damn contract again?_  

 

Molly was out of bed before he had a chance to take her by the arm and hold her there. (Was that something he was allowed to do? Wouldn’t that be something _a bit not good_ , even if he wanted to with every fibre of his being?)

 

Already gathering her clothes she quoted, growing somewhat tense, “ _No_ _falling asleep or hanging out right after sex_.”

 

“ _Unless it’s very good and we plan to repeat it_ ,” he countered, sitting up and watching her begin to dress, his heart beating far too quickly. By now he was skidding past vexation and into incredulity. _God damn it, why was she being so unreasonable?!_

 

Molly stopped in the middle of buttoning her blouse. Looking twice as exasperated as he felt, she fixed on him, “Is that the only reason you want me to stay? Sex?”

 

Sherlock felt his mouth twitch uncomfortably around words that refused to form.

 

Molly waited and waited for him to say something but he couldn’t, and in the end she shook her head, shoulders slumping. “Fine then. You said I could say stop anytime I wanted, so I’m saying it now. Goodnight Sherlock,” she said, leaving the bedroom and slamming the door behind her as she went.

 

For the longest time he just sat there staring at it, fighting the urge to run after her.

 

* * *

 

The visit passed as it always did, in complete and deafening silence.

 

Mycroft had every intention of asking his sister about Elza Mayer, but the set of her jaw, the twinkle in her eyes told him that she knew what he’d found and was just waiting for his childish attempts at interrogation.

 

For better or worse, he refused to give her that satisfaction.

 

Elizabeth had been a way to meet Doctor Watson, Faith Smith would have been the connection to Sherlock had Mary not inadvertently alerted Mycroft to his sister’s excursions from Sherrinford. The purpose of Elza in Eurus’ plan, however, refused to present itself to him.

 

When the allotted fifteen minutes visitation had passed Mycroft stood, buttoned his jacked and signalled to the waiting guard that he was ready to leave. His sister was sat on the floor of her cell, legs crossed beneath her, hands resting on her knees when she uttered her first words to him in weeks.

 

“I know that you want to ask, but you can’t bring yourself to do it.”

 

Mycroft froze, his back turned to her.

 

“I like puzzles, don’t you? They’re so much fun. But it’s boring when the people you’re playing with aren’t clever enough to figure it out for themselves, so I’m going to give you a clue. Think of it as one sibling helping another rather than cheating, brother dear.”

 

Eurus stood as Mycroft turned to face her, both walking toward the glass that separated them.

 

“It amazing the things that a man doesn’t see, no matter how hard he looks at you,” Eurus said, a small, bitter smirk pulling at the corner or her mouth. “Everything is always about them. All you have to do is massage their ego and they become blind to who you actually are. But a woman is a very different creature, they see right through disguise of every sort. It’s not enough to flirt with them, or make them feel clever, you have distract them, upset and preoccupy them in order to fool them or they’ll see exactly what you’re doing.”

 

Mycroft peered at her. His eyebrow raised he held her gaze until she backed away from him and picked up her violin. “Is that it then, your _clue_?”

 

“No, Mycroft,” she said drawing her bow across the strings. “My clue is this: If either you or Sherlock were able to see what’s right under your noses you’d have solved this by now.”

 

With those words she began to play, leaving Mycroft with a sense of dread that perhaps he hadn’t put an end to her games after all.


	6. Another nail in the coffin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of comments left on this chapter, comment moderation has been switched on. I can’t even begin to tell you how sad I am about that.

“Going out?” John who was still at the kitchen table, hidden behind the morning paper asked.

 

Mary shifted Rosie on her hip and sucked in a breath, turning to him. “Yeah. Taking the demon spawn to crèche. Might as well keep her routine going until I’m well enough to get back to work. Unless you want to take her on your way into the surgery?”

 

Her husband lowered his newspaper and pinned her with an innocuous look that was anything but. “That it then? The crèche?”

 

No point lying, John wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t already know the answer to that question. In fact he wouldn’t be talking to her at all unless it was to get some sort of a dig in. By Mary’s estimation he’d said seventeen words to her in the last three days, all of them to do with Rosie. They were right back to where they were in the months after she’d shot Sherlock. Except this time the days when they did ‘talking’ were far fewer. She’d lied to Sherlock about that, things weren’t getting better: It proved how preoccupied he’d been over the business with Molly that he hadn’t even noticed.

 

“And then Bart’s,” she said. “Sherlock text me this morning.” _Not that John would know, he’d spent yet another night on the sofa, anything to avoid sharing a bed with her._ “He’s going in to have a look at a body. Asked if I’d join him.”

 

Mary knew that one of the reasons Sherlock had text her was because he needed a buffer between him and Molly. And he was enough of a show off that he generally needed someone there to shine for, Sherlock worked best with an audience. But she suspected a third reason. He was probably hoping that her running off on a case with him would set off John’s danger radar. Mary’s dear heart was an addict in need of a fix, and heaven knew he hadn’t had one in a while. If that _had_ been Sherlock’s plan then he’d played it to a tee, because John was bolt upright, like a bloodhound on the trail.

 

He folded his paper, set it down on the table. “What case?”

 

“A murder. Local psychiatrist. Elza Mayer.”

 

Something odd flickered over John’s face but was gone again just as quickly as it had appeared. He stared at her, and for a moment she though he would say something but then his features went blank again. “You better be going. Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, now would you?”

 

“John—”

 

He rose to his feet. Shoulders stiff, his mouth set hard as he walked away from the kitchen table. “Say hi to Molly for me.”

 

Mary took a step toward him, but he’d already disappeared into the bedroom.

 

She’d been dismissed. Again.

 

Not for the first time, Mary wondered just how much more of this she could take.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft knew it was going to be one of _those_ days when Anthea started the regular morning briefing by setting a plate of Jaffa Cakes on his desk along with a cup of milky tea.

 

“What has my brother done now?”

 

Her face made a series of complicated little expressions that he interpreted as confusion and/or disbelief. “He’s at Bart’s.”

 

Mycroft squinted at her. “Nothing unusual in that.”

 

“Sir, he’s having a series of medical tests—”

 

Mycroft’s hand stilled abruptly over the Jaffa Cakes.

 

“—Diagnostics. Blood. Cranial CT. An ECG,” Anthea listed.

 

That was… _unexpected_. “He’s attempting to establish he has a brain and heart? Highly unlikely he’ll be successful in either endeavour.”

 

“The purpose is unclear, Sir.”

 

The plate of biscuits was pushed to one side. At least there was always one thing he could thank his little brother for: Mycroft’s appetite had completely disappeared. “Keep me informed of results,” he said. “Let me know if he engages in further medical testing.”

 

“Sir,” she said, simply.

 

And while they were on the subject of Sherlock…“What news of the Mayer case?”

 

“In hand.”

 

“Good. Good.”

 

Well at least something was going to plan. Mycroft sighed, allowed himself to take one biscuit from the plate, reconsidered, and put it back.  It was probably too early in the day to turn to chocolate for comfort. His brother didn’t know about DI Hamilton just yet, and Mycroft had a feeling that when Sherlock found out it would take more than Jaffa Cakes to get him through _that_ tantrum.

 

* * *

 

_Meanwhile at the morgue, a consulting detective was weighing up his options…_

 

In his vast experience of fucking things up, Sherlock often found that the best way to get past something was to pretend it had never happened in the first place. On a scale on one to oh-shit for sheer dramatic value, the night before was right up there along with not so accidentally shooting someone in the head while half of MI5 looked on. Even with Mycroft’s intervention, he doubted Molly’s memory of the night before could be altered as easily as security footage. ( _Did that technology even exist? He made a mental note to check with Mycroft, and if it did, whether he might be given access to it._ ) Hypothetical memory ray-guns aside, in this instance, denial would regrettably remain just a river in Egypt.

 

That left option two. Apologising.

 

Sun Tzu might not endorse the method, but Serbia had taught him that the fastest way to enter enemy territory was to surrender. That particular course of action also had the added advantage of making him appear to be the reasonable one. Which, by the way, he was. And while an assessment of the variables led him to hypostasise that any display of weakness could compromise his position, he had often observed a statistically significant anomaly when contrition was shown by one half of a romantic partnership to the other – not that he and Molly were a partnership. Or romantic, for that matter. _Pfft,_ not in the least – but there was a chance that a demonstration of vulnerability – real or perceived – might be construed as an act of emotional intelligence.

 

On the other hand, she might see it for the bullshit that it was and he’d be in an even deeper hole. Tactically, it could go either way.

 

Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh. Sometimes it was so hard not smoking. How he wished he had a cigarette now. Even a nicotine patch would do: Although smoking one probably wouldn’t be the best idea... He’d have to test that theory at some point.

 

For now, he’d have to find a way to fix things with Molly (which he emphatically would) and solve the case (another thing he’d be able to tick off his list within the hour) without chemical assistance. However, both of those things were contingent on him being able to actually get into Bart’s morgue, which, thanks to the strange little technician from IT who was working on wiring something up to the lab’s locked door, he was currently unable to do.

 

“They finally decided to keep you out then?” Mary grinned from over his shoulder.

 

Sherlock looked down his nose at the man and the swipe card reader he was fitting, sniffing haughtily. “Might have been a bit of a to-do last month about missing body parts. And equipment. There was talk that all of the sample storage areas and labs would be kept locked. Authorised access only. Audit trails. That sort of plebeian nonsense. Seems they’ve finally gotten around to it.”

 

“Pretty certain that won’t even slow you down.”

 

His cheek twitched. “Probably not.”

 

"Been waiting long?"

 

"A while." Best not to mention the early morning CT. Or the heart thing. At least not until there was a firm diagnosis.

 

They stood in silence for a few more moments while they waited for the doors to open. Mary was being subtle – or so she thought – looking at him from the corner of her eye, but for the life of him he couldn’t deduce whether her new found interest had something to do with what he and Molly had done when they got back from Sussex the day before, or if it was because she’d heard about what had happened afterwards.

 

He waited it out, and eventually she cracked.

 

“So how was it?”

 

Sherlock glanced at the IT chap – who was pretending not to listen to them – and then back to Mary. “You should know that a true gentleman never discusses his encounters with a lady.”

 

“I meant the house you went to see,” she grinned. “But now that you mention it…”

 

“Mind your own business.”

 

“Oh come on!”

 

“Didn’t you get the email? I’ve updated my privacy policy. You’re no longer permitted to ask about my sex life.”

 

“Fine,” said Mary. “I’ll just ask Molly instead.”

 

“ _NO!”_ he cried, casting a sheepish glance around them to see who might be looking. “Don’t you dare.”

 

“Oh so it was rubbish then? What happened? You couldn’t get it— you know,” she made a motion with her hand that suggested _up_.

 

“For God’s sake! Of course I—” he pursed his lips, lowering his voice so that the nosey bugger working on Bart’s new security system couldn’t hear. “It was...” _Bloody brilliant._ “Fine. At least the during part was.” He hesitated, bit his lip. “It was after that things were…not so good.”

 

Mary glared at him. “Oh Sherlock, what did you do?”

 

“Why would you assume that I’m the one who did something wrong?”

 

Mary gave him side-eye that could only be interpreted as _of course it was bloody you_.

 

“Yes. Well. I merely suggested she stay over... _after_. But for some reason she found the idea entirely unacceptable.”

 

“Maybe – I don’t know – because it would have broken the rules?”

 

“ _Oh for—_   You’ve seen the contract? She showed it to you?”

 

“Either that or I hacked her laptop. Not saying which. Tell me,” she nudged him with her elbow, “have you seen the tattoos? What are they like? Are they _really_ slutty?”

 

“Molly Hooper,” he said with indignation, “does not have one single thing about her that could be classed as ‘ _slutty_. _’_ And you can give it up for a lost cause, Mrs Watson, I won’t be sharing the ins and outs—” Mary giggled and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “—the _sordid details_ of mine and Molly’s assignations.”

 

Mary cocked a curious eyebrow in his direction, “Assignations? Plural? So even though you had a row you’re planning to do it again?”

 

“Good Lord. You’re worse than John. Why are you so interested in other people’s sex lives? Don’t you have enough of your own to occupy you?”

 

Instantly, he knew he’d said the wrong thing. It wasn’t like he did it deliberately, but that didn’t mean he could simply not deduce something. The sky was blue. The grass was green. Those were just facts, nothing he had to think about or even try to see: They just were _there_ , no conscious effort needed required. As was the fact that Mary and John hadn’t been intimate in a very, _very_ long time. Worse still, he saw that she was heartbroken because of it.

 

“I apologise,” he said softly, sincerely. “That was uncalled for.”

 

“It’s all right. Not your fault.” Mary leaned into him, taking his arm as he frowned down at her. “But can I give you a piece of advice?”

 

“If I say no, will that stop you?”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“ _Oh good...”_

 

“This is Molly’s workplace, filled with gossipy co-workers and about twenty or so people who work under her. It’s not the place for relationship drama. When we get in there, try to keep it professional. Yeah?”

 

Sherlock’s nose crinkled. “Of course I’ll keep it professional. I _am_ a professional—”

 

“You can’t be a professional at a job you made up.”

 

“—Why wouldn’t I keep it professional?”

 

“No reason at all,” Mary replied airily.

 

They stared at each other for a moment, but silence returned as they waited for the little chap from IT – _lives alone, has an online girlfriend who unbeknownst to him is using stolen photographs on her profile, recently gave up smoking_ – to finish his work and unlock the door.

 

Eventually, he stood up, gathering his tools, “I’m just about done. You’ll have to apply for access cards though. All new security systems will be operational by the end of the day, after that you won’t be able to get in without one. You can go through now, Mr Holmes,” he tipped his head, “Mrs Watson.”

 

Sherlock completely ignored him and ushered Mary through, one hand at the small of her back. It took only one look from Molly, who was sitting at her laptop, pale and pinched, to see where things stood between them.

_Ah. As he’d feared. Deep hole._

 

“Mary,” Molly said by way of a welcome, smiling tightly. “Sherlock.”

 

“Hello love,” Mary greeted her with a quick peck on the cheek.

 

“I—” Sherlock began, not entirely sure what he should say next.

 

“If there’s something you need,” she cut him off at the knees, returning her attention to the screen she was working on, “you’ll have to go bother somebody else. There’s a mountain of paperwork to get through today. I’ve assigned Mike Stamford to case liaison duties, he might have some free time to get you coffee and tell you how brilliant you are, if you’re nice to him.”

 

Sherlock stared at the top of Molly’s head, momentarily floundering. “I don’t want Stamford.”

 

“Sorry. He’ll have to do.”

 

“But he’s not my—”

 

“Your _what?”_ Molly snapped.

 

“My—” _Pathologist? Lover? Girl—_ “Friend.”

 

“Neither am I. We signed our friendship away five days ago, remember?”

 

“Fine.” _If that’s how she wanted to play this. Fine_. He would be the bigger person, the dignified one, the stoic casualty of Molly Hooper’s irrational behaviour. “I’ll just get the Mayer notes and be out of your way _.”_

 

“You can’t have them.”

 

Little bubbles of irritation rose and lodged in his throat. Apparently he was wrong (that did occasionally happen) he couldn’t manage stoicism after all. “Really, _Doctor?_ You’d put your pettiness before an unsolved crime?”

 

“Don’t you dare.” Molly positively glared at him, little daggers of steel shooting from her eyes, white as a sheet.

 

Things were going off track faster than Anderson on a case, and it seemed there was nothing he could do to stop it. Without consulting his brain for direction, his mouth seemed determined to run off toward the four winds despite the fact that his entire mind palace posse, consisting of everyone from John to Mycroft and beyond (well, okay, the only other friend he had was Greg, but he’d joined in too) was screaming at him to shut the fuck up and carefully back out of the room.

 

Yet Sherlock drew himself up to full height, his shoulders straight. “You’re upset with me,” he pointed out, his words imbued with the righteousness of his moral position and civic duty, his chest beginning to heave, “and because of that you’re going to put your personal feelings ahead of your _professionalism_ , thereby risking the safety of the public and leaving Ms Mayer’s murderer at large. Need I remind you that you took an oath. You swore that you wouldn’t fail to set your own ego aside when the skills of another were needed—”

 

_The mind palace bro squad held their heads in their hands._

 

“—Evidentially you can set aside your emotions in the bedroom, so I suggest you do that here and let me get on with my work.”

 

Vaguely he was aware of a group of junior doctors off in one corner turning to look at them, two lab techs, two or three of the IT crowd, and Mary saying, “Oh for the love of— would you please shut up.”

 

But it was too late. The damage had been done. Molly – _his Molly_ – wasn’t there anymore. Right at that moment she was gone. There was nothing: Not disappointment, not anger, not even hurt. She stared at him, but it was as though he was made of glass, transparent, she saw right through him.

 

“I can’t let you have the case notes because Ms Mayer’s body and paperwork was stolen last night along with three others, and their records destroyed when our system was hacked.” Molly’s voice was perfectly steady. “That’s why I’m up to my tits in extra paperwork this morning and why they’re restricting access to authorised key-card holders—”

 

Sherlock’s head began to spin. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. His chest, swollen with anger, was flooded with something else, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar, little needles of it sticking in his throat, poking him in the ribs, making everything inside of him burn and bleed.

 

“—As for setting emotions aside, I’d suggest, _Sherlock_ , that if one of us needs to control ourselves it might be you. It’s only because of my professionalism that I’ll allow you to stay in _my_ morgue and carry out your work despite the fact that had you spoken to one of my staff the way you’ve just spoken to me, I’d have you kicked out on your arse fast enough to make your silly hat spin off, and no amount of whinging or bitching to your big brother would ever get you back through those doors again. Now if you’re quite finished having your little hissy fit, Tim’s is in charge of the investigation into the break-in. He’s set up a temporary incident room in my office, and I understand he’s waiting to speak to you.”

 

Sherlock trembled with rage. “Tim?” As in Just-Tim? Who by now was supposed to be be riding a reindeer across the frozen tundra, but was instead secreting pheromones all over Molly’s personal space—  “ _Mycroft. Bloody sodding Mycroft._ I am going to _kill_ him.”

 

Molly strode toward him, her cheeks pink, lips pressed together until they were bloodless. “Why? What did you try to do?”

 

Impotent anger, frustration, with her, with himself, confusing little emotions, he was consumed by them all. Sherlock stood there, by this time almost nose to nose with Molly (well, chin to nose because she was comically short) their eyes locked as he set fire to his own goddamn plan. When, finally, his breathing was under control he spat out, “He was _flirting_ with you. He—” Even in his agitated state, Sherlock was revolted at the crassness of the words. Nevertheless he elected to say them. “He doesn’t _care_ about you. He only wants to get into your— your—  knickers.”

 

“And how is that any different from you?”

 

“It just is.”

 

“How is it? Tell me? Give me a reason. Why is it that I’m not allowed to sleep with anyone but you?”

 

“Because I—”

_Because you what? The council of unwise gentlemen who occupied his mind palace waited with rapt attention._

 

“—Because I forbid it.”

_The imagined versions of John, Mycroft and Greg all sucked in air between teeth and winced._

 

Meanwhile Molly looked exactly like she might slap him. But instead, her voice turned low and cold. “Say that again.”

 

“You heard me.”

 

“Say it, Sherlock.”

 

 “I— ”

 

“Say. It,” she bit out.

 

He stuck his nose into the air and huffed. Backtracking wasn’t an option now anyway. “I forbid it.”

 

Molly closed her eyes, her cheeks dappled with colour. She blew out a breath and turned away, “Right. Fine. I’m going to my office now to accept Tim’s invitation to take me out for coffee. And when I come back, you won’t be here.”

 

Sherlock watched, stunned, as she walked straight past him, head high. She passed by him close enough to touch, and for all his harsh words he longed to reach out his hand, to catch hers and say something that would stop her from making this terrible mistake. Too late, he said her name: but the door to her office had already opened, and there stood Tim his arms stretched out ready to wrap themselves around Molly’s shoulders. He’d witnessed the entire thing.

 

Sneaky bastard. He’d waited for Sherlock to fuck up. Bided his time. And now he was moving in for the kill.

 

When the door closed behind Molly, Sherlock looked to Mary for help, for instruction, intervention, _anything_.

 

Instead, she shook her head in disbelief, saying after a long silence, “Well done you for not making a scene.”  

 

* * *

 

Eurus knelt on the floor of her cell as her lunch tray was placed in the steel drawer and slid to her side of the glass. The orderly attempted eye contact that she didn’t return. No need, the signal was understood. Eurus had precisely thirty seconds to retrieve the note hidden beneath the tray of food before security cameras would switch back from the loop they’d been put on.

 

As she read, her face made an odd little movement that she’d once been told was called a smile. Vaguely she wondered if it had been caused by her being right, or merely the prospect of seeing her favourite brother again.

_Target assessment complete. Your deduction correct. Operation in progress._

 

She swallowed the note whole, picked up her violin and began to play. Now in her mind palace, Eurus searched for the memory of her precious minutes with Jim Moriarty.

 

Poor Jim, who really hadn’t been very clever after all. He’d had the one thing he needed to end Sherlock Holmes quite literally in his hands, and hadn’t even known.


End file.
